The Stick-Aft's Foil
by ghost-writer-88
Summary: Jazz is a young, rookie saboteur in the Autobot Special Operations Division and he is on his way up... If only his latest mission would stop trying to go south. - Eventual Prowl/Jazz
1. Chapter 1: Arriving in Iacon

Verse: pre-earth G1 AU

Pairings: Prowl/Jazz

Rating: M, cuz I'm paranoid (blame Red Alert, he's been whispering in my ear again)

Note: this is my first fanfic and I don't have a beta, so it is likely to be rife with grammer and punctuation problems, homonyms, and other errors. Sorry in advance and please help me out by letting me know where the errors are so I can remove them. I will be updating this fic as the muse allows since I currently have about four different stories running through my head all vying for writing time.  
Also, I like to make OCs for the purpose of being redshirts, so if I kill one off but you liked the name, please feel free to take it (note: only adopt names of DECEASED OCs).

Vorn = 83 years  
Decacycle = 3 weeks  
Orn = 1 day  
Joor = 1 hour  
Dark-cycle = nighttime  
Light-cycle = daytime  
Klik = 1 minute  
Nanoklik or Astroklik = 1 second

Chapter 1:

The shuttle descended towards Iacon slowly, circling the once proud towers and revealing the massive armaments that guarded the gargantuan underground Autobot base. A black and white mech sat fairly glued to the window panel in amazement. Blackshot chuckled softly in his seat across the deck. The head of spec ops and current TIC of the Autobots was amused by the young mech. He was acting every bit the new recruit he was purported to be, only Blackshot knew otherwise. This innocent seeming mech, designation Jazz, was one of the most talented recruits ever to be courted by Blackshot's department. The mech could fade into any background, becoming invisible, without the energy consuming addition of a phase disruptor. Jazz truly was youthful and exuberant, but, when he went into mission-mode, a darker construct emerged. Blackshot had chosen to mentor the younger mech after witnessing one of his more flamboyant missions, a highly impressive piece of work that would sadly never see the light of orn to receive the adulation it should have earned.

Now, technically, when a new spec ops recruit was brought in, it was performed in secret and most mechs never saw them unless they managed to become one of the few soldiers deemed worthy enough to serve on a mission with them. However, Blackshot had a need for his newest asset to be highly visible.

A slight jolt from the shuttle told the TIC that they had landed and the crowd of new soldiers on the deck preparing to disembark encouraged him to find his charge. Blackshot had just reached Jazz's side when he happened to look out the window. What he saw made him swear audibly, "Frag, it's the stick-aft."

Jazz's eyebrow rose in clear mirth at his commander's words, but wisely allowed his mentor to elaborate without comment.

"You, lad are about to meet one of the stiffest, coldest sparks ever to be spat out of the Pit." Blackshot growled. "Our illustrious SIC has apparently decided that today's influx of newsparks should be inducted into the ranks with a 'proper' post-disembarking inspection. If you have any contraband items on you, I suggest you place them in your spec ops subspace because all other subspaces are subject to this farce."

The young agent gave a nod to his superior and began to empty his belongings into a highly secure subspace within a subspace. After he finished, Jazz slipped into the crowd and followed them out onto the runway. A tall black and white of Praxian origins awaited them along with a massive red mech whose favored weapon appeared to be the set of cannons he sported on his forearms. The red one quickly ordered them to line up in parade rest beside the shuttle. The twenty or so freshlings did as ordered, but not without a bit of nervous muttering. The Praxian snapped his doorwings back in a severe motion as he strode down the line examining the troops. He addressed them as he neared the end of their group, "I am Autobot Prowl, second-in-command of the Autobots, and chief tactical officer. I am responsible for your discipline, your schedules, and your duty assignments. If you show yourselves to be mature additions to our ranks then you will be rewarded accordingly, however, if you choose to exemplify attitudes of disorder or otherwise attempt to encourage troublesome behavior, I will see to it that you are paid in kind. Please remember that you are part of a unit now and can no longer afford to think solely for yourselves."

As the officer droned on about the importance of proper behavior whilst on base, Jazz could not help but find his attention waning. He did think that the mech had a nice vocalizer, a deep baritone that drifted soothingly through his auditory processor, but Jazz ultimately found himself agreeing with Blackshot, Prowl was a stick-aft. Apparently, several of the recruits thought so too, for a soft call of "hardaft" wafted down from the other end of the line. It would have gone unheard, but Jazz's audials were hypersensitive as was befitting a mech of his calling. Jazz found it mildly surprising when Prowl turned to face the grunt that had spoken with unerring accuracy, since he knew that Praxians did not naturally come with enhanced hearing. He was drawn from that curious line of thought though, by the SIC's response. "Soldier, what is your designation?"

The recruit looked back brashly answering, "Gravwell… sir."

The soldier's ill-advised decision to tack on the 'sir' as if an afterthought sealed his fate, the SIC drew himself up straighter in an even more severely perfect posture. "Private Gravwell, for the crime of slandering a superior officer in effort to undermine said officer's authority, you are hereby sentenced to one orn in the brig, followed by six cycles of cleaning duty under the supervision of corporal Huffer. Ironhide, please escort our brig's inaugural guest to their cell."

The recruits were stunned into silence after that, and Jazz with them. He was most shocked by the fact that the officer had shown no sign of any emotions during the entire speech and had not even raised his voice during the young soldier's sentencing. Jazz groaned; it was bad enough that he had to pretend to be a typical grunt to the populace at large on the base by request of his commander, but he would also have to suffer under the harsh regime of a SIC who clearly would not know a joke from a death threat. It was going to be a long vorn.

-TBC-


	2. Chapter 2: The Team

Oh hai, welcome to the next installment. Again, if you see any mistakes tell me, thanks in advance.  
Also, Bumblebee in this story might appear a little ooc, but that's cuz in my mind this is how I see him. I think he is like Jazz, friendly to everyone on the outside, but hiding a darker personality on the inside that comes out when he is on missions. I also don't like thinking of him as being the youngest, again I think it is a ploy to make others underestimate him, and in my fics he is actually about the same age as Jazz or a little older.  
Enjoy and please rate n' review.

Vorn = 83 years  
Decacycle = 3 weeks  
Orn = 1 day  
Joor = 1 hour  
Dark-cycle = nighttime  
Light-cycle = daytime  
Klik = 1 minute  
Nanoklik or Astroklik = 1 second

* * *

Chapter 2:

The arduous inspection continued after the unfortunate Gravwell was dragged off by Ironhide. Prowl had finally completed the visual inspection and was moving on to the perusal of the contents of everyone's subspaces. Cry after cry of indignation was heard as Prowl confiscated every object of even slightly contrabandish nature. Jazz found himself very glad that Blackshot had seen fit to warn him. His special subspace was filled with items the SIC would have been happy to relieve him of. When said mech reached Jazz and asked him to empty his subspace, the Polyhexian clumsily opened all four regulation spaces onto Prowl's pedes with a feigned "Oops." It was part of his mission to appear normal and a normal grunt would be terrified in the presence of such an authoritarian commanding officer.

The other recruits snickered at his blunder and waited with baited intakes for the impending reprimand. They were disappointed however, when Prowl calmly accepted Jazz's nervousness as genuine. The SIC glanced over the spilled belongings, removed a few illegal items that Jazz had purposely left exposed, and moved on.

At the end of the assessment the soldiers received a long-winded speech on why contraband was not allowed and what the consequences would be if such items were found again. At long last they were released to go to their quarters, but not without a stern reminder that a mandatory orientation would occur just before that orn's dark-cycle in the northside rec room.

When Jazz reached his room he was surprised to find he had been assigned not one, but two roommates. The first, a small yellow and black minibot, gave his designation as 'Bumblebee' and seemed to be quite friendly. The other, a slender white and blue mech, turned his olfactory sensor up at Jazz and disappeared in a haze of light pixels. The door to the room opened and closed as the mech gave the illusion of walking out. Jazz, while stunned, was not fooled. His extra sensor array and audials told him that the mech had remained seated on the berth. Not one to spoil another's fun though, Jazz turned to Bumblebee and inquired, "He's got ah phase disrupta'?"

Bumblebee just grinned and nodded, "Yup, that's Mirage, he used to be a noble from the Towers. That little talent used to allow him to avoid unpleasant conversation with his peers. I think his creators had intended him to use it to spy on their enemies and collect information to further the house's political standing."

While Bumblebee explained Jazz had slowly inched towards the empty bunk under the pretense of stowing his gear. When he was standing next to it he reached and snagged something mid-air. His movement had been almost too swift to be processed visually and the air under his servo shimmered to reveal Mirage, who was pouting at having been detected. He turned to the Polyhexian, further irritated, when Jazz would not release his scruffbar. "Would you be so kind as to remove your filthy servo from my clean armor." His cultured voice dripped with disdain at the idea of having been touched by a 'lower' bot.

"Can't have ya disappearin' on meh again. Would prevent us from getting' ta know one anotha'." Jazz countered, but complied with a smirk. The noble quickly checked his armor for scuffs and dings that might have been left by the other. The minibot sank onto his own berth with a gasp. "Thank Primus, you passed."

Jazz quirked an optic ridge and waited for an explanation. It was the noble who supplied the answer, "Our beloved commander did not want you to enter the mission field without backup and has assigned us to be your team. However, while we have read your file, we have not been afforded an opportunity to see you work. Therefore, we determined to test you to ascertain whether we would be capable of working as a cohesive team."

"So, mah test was ta find ya when ya was 'nvisible?"

"Yes," Bumblebee interjected, "Mirage's ability makes him virtually undetectable to the enemy, but the same can be implied of our own side as well. Because of this many simply write him off as a wild card instead of trying to utilize his gift, and the few who did see his potential didn't know how to use it correctly. Mirage has been shot at least six times by our own soldiers because one of our unit commanders told him to secure something on the other side and then forgot he was there. After we nearly lost him in the last fiasco, Blackshot gave the order that Mirage was not to work with any agent that could not detect him whilst invisible."

" 'N ah take it you can sense 'im too?"

Bumblebee nodded pointing to his small sensor horns. "Minibots come online equipped with advanced sensor arrays to prevent us from being crushed or damaged by larger mechs. A few minor tweaks to those systems make us some of the most formidable spec ops agents available."

"Ah see. Well, since ya two gen'lmechs are more aware o' the situation than ah, would ya mind givin' meh a briefin' ah what ya know."

Both of them straightened into 'mission-mode' as Bumblebee began their first official team meeting. "First, according to the records, I am your only roommate. As far as anyone else knows, Mirage is still back at ops. Since we cannot go near that sector without raising suspicion and the comms are likely to be hacked, we will give our report to Mirage to servo-deliver. Second, this room has been upgraded secretly by ops and is now a secure room so we can converse freely."

Jazz nodded in approval and Mirage took over to finish the brief. "As far as can be determined, the leak we have been assigned to source and plug is not an officer. Nor is it a member of tactical or security, all of them have checked out clean. Whoever is leaking the information on our troop movements is well informed but not part of the groups who would have that data. How this is being accomplished is to be our primary focus. We know how the information is getting out though. One of the communications mechs, designation Rapidburst, has been discovered sending coded databursts out under the guise of warming up our comm systems before battle. He is unaware that we have discovered him and we hope to backtrack to his informant from him."

"Then ah guess its tahm ta make some friends in comms. 'Bee, where are ya stationed officially?"

"In the Requisitions Department. I tried for Comms when I took my aptitudes but the powers that be decided I would be better suited elsewhere."

"Ah'll be tryin' for tha same when Ah take mine tamorrah. Primus-willin' Ah'll pass. It'll save us tha trouble of comin' up with excuses for bein' there all tha time."

The two accepted the plan as a good preliminary starting point and with it the meeting was concluded. The specs ops bots disappeared leaving the cheerful minibot and snooty noble in their place.

"Now that we're all up to date, why don't you let us help you unpack and then the three of us can mosey down to the northrec for your orientation Jazz." segued Bumblebee.

"Won't it raise ah bit o' suspicion for 'Raj ta be seen wit us?"

"The key word there being 'see'." Bumblebee said while snickering at the noble's indignant response to his new knick-name. Jazz grinned in agreement and the three got to work.

* * *

Jazz collapsed on his berth completely worn out by the Orientation-from-the-Pit. It had started out normal enough; get a download of the base map, listen to a short introduction of the important officers, get a download of the shift schedule, and be given a short reminder of the fact that a military base has rules and regulations. Short… yeah… right. Reminder… pfft… right. Prowl had been in charge of that section and he had droned on for three and a half cycles before the Prime had gently stopped him. Jazz remembered feeling a slightly vindictive amount of amused satisfaction at the tiny rush of emotion that had crossed Prowl's face as he informed the matrix-bearer that he was only a third through the most pertinent rules and was denied continuance anyway. Optimus Prime had generously compromised with his SIC by requiring each recruit to download a complete copy of the regulations en masse before they were permitted to leave.

Jazz decided that something had to give. If this had been a temporary assignment he would simply have ignored the rigid tactician. His patience was endless in most situations, but since his assignment to Iacon was permanent, Jazz felt it was his duty to improve the lives of his fellow soldiers. Primarily by enlightening their stiff SIC upon the world of fun and emotion. With that comforting thought in processor Jazz powered down into recharge.

-TBC-


	3. Chapter 3: Raising the Bar

Hello again. First I would like to apologize for the long update time, I just moved and my new home does not have any internet. Also, it should be noted that the holidays are a very hectic time at my work and I was unable to get much writing done. All this culminated in only a single chapter written.

Please enjoy, rate, and review.

* * *

Chapter 3:

The next orn the recruits went through a series of evaluations to determine where their talents and skills could best serve the base. First, came the marksmanship test. While Jazz was not the most proficient with weapons, preferring hand-to-hand combat like a true assassin, he was adequate and enjoyed the practice. It also afforded him the opportunity to acquaint himself with Ironhide, who turned out to be the base's Weapons Specialist. The red mech was certifiably obsessed with guns, the bigger the better. Although Jazz did not share this passion, their similar laid back natures gave them enough common ground to form a tentative friendship.

After marksmanship came melee combat. This test was overseen by a red, orange, and black seeker designated, Spitfire. Jazz was surprised knowing first-hand that nearly all the seekers had joined the Decepticons and the few who had not were all neutral. Seekers were also no known for their close combat skills, thanks to their thinner flight armor. However, Spitfire seemed to have no problems, even when disadvantageously pitted against a pair of twin frontliners. Most of the seeker's counterattacks and defenses focused on redirecting the motions of his opponents in a style similar to Diffusion. His fighting style was strange though, incorporating flowing, twisting, climbing moves than made him look more like a cybereel than a mech. Jazz knew that as soon as his undercover job was done he would be back to spar properly with the odd flier.

* * *

Just after the last recruit finished they were released for mid-orn energon. Jazz picked up his ration and surveyed the room for a table where he could observe without appearing antisocial. He selected one against the far wall, but as he arrived, so did another mech. They stood there awkwardly for a klik before Jazz extended his servo in welcome. "There is always room for two mah mech."

The red and yellow mech smiled and clasped his servo in a friendly shake. They sat and introduced themselves. "Ah'm Jazz." "Ah am Blaster."

Ya from Polyhex?" Jazz questioned, recognizing the accent as similar to his own.

"Yep, West District."

"The cassette-masters district?! Ya one o' them?" Jazz was delighted at such a rare meeting.

"If Ah am?" Blaster answered warily.

"Tha would be fantastic mech. Ah've never gotten tha chance ta meet one. Seen 'em tho, always surrounded by their cute little mechs."

Blaster grinned and pressed a small button on his torso releasing two quadrapedal cassettes. "Like these?"

Jazz's visor brightened in glee as he stared at the two small symbiotes. "That's awesome ma mech, what're their designations?"

This one is Steeljaw," Blaster pointed to the orange and purple felinoid, "and that one is Ramhorn." He pointed to the reddish miniature cyber-rhino.

"Hey there minimechs, how ya doin'?"

The two cassettes regarded Jazz warily and gave a neutral shrug.

"It's ok guys, he's a Polyhexian, he knows."

Jazz looked up, confused by the cassette-master's cryptic statement. "Ah know what?"

"That they have sparks and aren't drones."

Jazz's visor darkened. "Mechs have been treatin' 'em like drones?" His voice was soft and held a steel-like quality that promised ill-intent for those who had mistreated the little ones. Blaster dropped his gaze to the floor. "Most don' know any better. The District was a very close knit community and very few outsiders were ever accepted among us. Most Poly's didn't even know the truth and we lived in the same city."

"Then how'd ya know ya could trust meh?" Jazz was still glowering at the idea that the symbiotes might not be receiving the same rights as the full-sized mechs.

"Cuz you called them 'little mechs.' Everyone not in the know calls 'em 'the drones'."

The black and white stiffened completely at the statement and swiftly came to a decision within himself. "The little mechs will always be treated right and welcomed amongst mah crew. We'll neva' treat 'em as less 'n what they are if ya decide ta stick around. 'N if we eva' catch any mechs botherin' 'em, we'll take care of it."

"Thank you," Blaster was flabbergasted by the generous offer of protection, "but why? We're strangers. Why offer that to mechs ya hardly know?"

"In tha words o' our dear Prime, 'Freedom is the right of all sentient beings' and in mah own words, 'N Primus help all those who would try ta take that freedom while mah spark still pulses'." Realizing that his dark mood was starting to worry the cassette-master he smiled and added light-sparkedly, " 'Sides, it feels right 'n Ah learned vorns ago ta listen ta mah spark."

Blaster smiled back in gratitude, offering his own friendship in return. More than ready to change the subject, the cassette-master asked a new, but typical, question. "So mah main machine, what section ya hopin' to get into?"

"Comms, you?"

"The same."

"Mah mech, Ah think this could be tha beginnin's of a great friendship."

* * *

Finally the evaluation of comm. skills commenced. The trial was an extensive battery of tests focusing on range, pitch, sensitivity, and encryption that was not for the faint of spark. Spec ops training made encryption easy and Jazz's own audios took care of the other three. He would have relaxed, assured of his victory, if not for a certain red and yellow cassette-master who showed an aptitude parallel to his own. This narrowed the saboteur's chances by a significant margin and he had recently learned that there was only one space left in the Communication Division.

Sabotage would be considered the standard operating procedure, but his sense of honor demanded that the contest with his new friend be completed fairly. He sent a quick message to Blackshot through Mirage containing the relevant info, sans his honor's demands, for advise. The reply was both welcome and dissparkening. Since the trials had already been completed and the data transmitted instantly to the relevant officers there would be no chance to alter it. The final placement of the analyzed mechs would be the responsibility of Prowl, and he was impossible to sway once he had determined the statistical probability of the success of an assignment. It also did not help that the SIC and TIC were not on friendly terms with one another and Blackshot would be unable to influence the decision without revealing why it was necessary. A revelation he was unwilling to make with the identity of the spy unknown. Jazz was secretly glad that his friend would have a fair chance, but the inflexibility of the rigid Praxian could jeopardize the saboteur's mission.

After the orn's schedule was completed and the recruits released for predark-cycle energon, Jazz decided it was time for some recon. His decision to 'help' the SIC to loosen up was still firm in his mind, but to circumvent a problem one must first know the problem… extensively.

Prowl was ready to throw something. At that moment he would have liked nothing better than to hunt down the mech who had created the War Codices and force _them_ to suffer through the datapad mountains piled all over the tactician's desk thanks to the rule that all new soldier placements would be overseen by Tactical. As head of the department he could have delegated the task to any of his subordinates, but his own perfectionism would simply demand that he review them anyway to ensure that every mech had been placed for maximum effectiveness. Resigning himself to the monotony of the task, and probable likelihood of a rechargeless night, he began on the first stack.

Many of the five hundred mechs would be rated 'normal' soldiers, 'cannon fodder' as Ironhide so eloquently put it, interspersed with a few promising individuals who would be jealously snatched up and assigned to specific departments in a never-ending cycle to improve their advantage against the Decepticons. Eventually he came to the file for a mech designated, Blaster. The mech rated extremely high in the comms section and seemed to be the perfect choice to replace Staticstop, who had perished in an attack a few decacycles earlier. Satisfied to have filled that void, Prowl picked up the next datapad, just to find that Blaster was not the only one to show an impressive score in comms.

Well, this would be interesting, the Praxian thought. Placing the two mechs' stats side-by-side, he compared them. The two were perfectly matched and complementary. Jazz was slightly superior in the aspect of encryption, but Blaster had a somewhat larger range. Prowl sincerely wished that there were two positions in comms, for these mechs seemed to have been built for it.

However, as only one spot was available a choice would have to be made. For the first time in nearly ten vorn Prowl turned on his battle computer to determine which young recruit would be the best option.

* * *

I am not completely satisfied with this chapter and it might get a rewrite at a later date. For now however, it will have to do.


	4. Chapter 4: The Hick-up

I finally, FINALLY, got some internet at my house and hopefully I will be able to post regularly from now on.

And, I have a few things to tell ya'll about this chapter.

First, I am introducing the form of timekeeping that will be used in all of my G1 fics for denoting the time of orn:

Dark Cycle: (D.C.)

Begins at 9pm and ends at 7am

9pm – 1st joor 2am – 6th joor

10pm – 2nd joor 3am – 7th joor

11pm – 3rd joor 4am – 8th joor

12am – 4th joor 5am – 9th joor

1am – 5th joor 6am – 10th joor

Light Cycle: (L.C.)

Begins at 7am and ends at 9pm

7am – 1st joor 2pm – 8th joor

8am – 2nd joor 3pm – 9th joor

9am – 3rd joor 4pm – 10th joor

10am – 4th joor 5pm – 11th joor

11am – 5th joor 6pm – 12th joor

12pm – 6th joor 7pm – 13th joor

1pm – 7th joor 8pm – 14th joor

Second, in my fics Femmes are simply another frame type, like seekers, and since Cybertronians do not have genders, all femmes will be referred to by the pronoun he/him when the fic is written pre-Earth. When my fics reach the post-Earth setting the humans denote the femmes as female, a fact the femmes quickly correct, but they keep the she/her pronoun since they like the idea of further demarcating their frametype from the normal mech frame.

* * *

Chapter 4:

An excited comm from Bumblebee had Jazz racing across the base to reach the Northern Commissary.

The Placement Lists had been posted.

The black and white skidded into the room, narrowly avoiding slamming into the wall of bots jostling to discover their posts. Jazz slowly managed his way through the throng to the announcement board where he found the yellow mini frowning slightly at the lists. "Sorry Jazz, but you didn't make the cut. They assigned you to Medical as a Technician, but at least they added a modifier that puts you on the short list should a position in Communications come available."

The post surprised the saboteur, sure he had basic medical skills, but no better than the rest of the formerly repressed majority, who either learned to repair themselves or perished. Not to mention that all spec-ops agents were required to learn first aid as a matter of course and most leveled up to minor field repair. He did not think his skills were anything special, but maybe the presiding surgeon had seen something promising.

Well, at least it would keep him off the front lines and, given that most bots trusted the medics, it might yield some interesting intel.

* * *

Once back in their room, and joined by their invisible partner, they discussed what their next step would be.

"Ah think we can still work wit' this. We jus' gotta play it careful."

Two pairs of attentive optics showed equal expressions of skepticism and Bumblebee stated a valid objection, "How? We have been trying to do this from outside the department for decacycles now and nothing has come of it."

"Well, when ya'll investigated tha department there shoulda been at least a few mechs there wit' enough empty frames in their subspaces ta get at least one discharged ta clear mah way."

"No sir, there actually is not." Interjected the noble spy. "After our investigation was finished the Lord Prime wanted an update on the mission and Blackshot was forced to turn over our reports. Our commander would have held a few back, but thanks to the Matrix our leader could not lie when the Lord Prime asked if the reports were complete. Then, all the illicit activities were turned over to Prowl, who proceeded to discipline all the offenders. Thus leaving us with a squeaky clean High Command and no leeway to insert any agents. Blackshot was not pleased."

Jazz servo-helmed, "Ya kno, Ah'm really startin' ta hate that mech. Could he not see tha benefit o' havin' readily disposable mechs whose activities, while against the rules, were not doin' any harm?!"

The other two gave him sympathizing looks, but could offer no words of solace.

"Well, no use cryin' ova' spilt ena'gon. We'll jus' hafta work wit' what we got. Ya'll give meh a couple a joors ta mull this ova' in mah processors an' we'll discuss new options this evenin'. Try an' think of any loopholes we mighta missed will ya." The exasperated saboteur implored. Mirage nodded his acknowledgement, activated his disruptor, and left with a soft, "Until this evening gentlemechs."

Bumblebee left soon after to begin his shift, leaving the aggravated Polyhexian to his thoughts. Jazz considered the mission from all angles and came to the depressing conclusion that the only recourse left would be using his friendship with Blaster. A tenuous avenue of intel at best and depended largely on whether the cassette-master would mind being 'disturbed' during work joors. Well, slim as it may be it still satisfied the mission requirements and Jazz turned his processor to the recon data he had collected over the past three orn while waiting for the lists.

According to what he had witnessed, the 'beloved' SIC led a very boring functioning with very little variation to his ornly routine. The Praxian served long joors and hardly ever seemed to recharge or refuel. Prowl's day started on the eighth joor of the dark-cycle before the light of Binaura, the binary stars, had even begun to ease the darkness. He would rise, grab a quick shower in his private washrack (6.8 kliks every time), snatch a cube from the officers' lounge, and then sequester himself in his office until the second joor of the light-cycle when the SIC would attend the ornly officers' meeting. Afterwards he would spend a joor with his tactical unit receiving updates on the various projects to which they were assigned. Then it was back to his office for more paperwork and tactical assessments. He never left, not even to refuel, but usually either his diversionary officer or the young theoretician apprentice would take him a cube before they retired for the dark-cycle. Finally, at the 4th joor D.C. he would go back to his quarters for a bit of recharge and start the orn all over again.

Jazz wondered when the bot defragged, because four joor was barely enough time to recharge, much less even begin the six joor defragmentation cycle. The saboteur shook his helm at the foolishness of the Praxian, such poor maintenance could lead to errors in his tactical planning or worse, get him killed on the battle field. What was most puzzling though, was Prowl's lack of social interaction. It was medically proven that all Cybertronians needed at least one friend to keep them metally stable and needed to have some form of physical contact, platonic or otherwise, with said friend to remain emotionally centered. The lack of these would explain the SIC's need to adhere to the rules as a way of stabilizing his meta and his emotionlessness to compensate for his isolation. These tactics should not have worked on a long term basis, but Prowl was still operating at maximum efficiency for his model type.

This intriguing puzzle aside, it was painfully obvious to Jazz that the solution to the 'Stick-Aft' problem would be to procure a few situations in wherein Prowl would be able to make some friends. How to make these events occur and the candidates to use would require further investigation for the time being.

* * *

Unbeknown to the saboteur his musings and earlier ops meeting had not gone unobserved. Up in the secured vents a small felinoid shape could just be discerned as it crept away on silent pedes. It made its way through the ducts until it reached another berthroom. It removed the vent grating and dropped down onto the berth below next to his master. The red and yellow mech showed no surprise at his cassette's sudden appearance and merely opened his arms to allow the felinoid to arrange himself comfortable in the larger mech's lap.

After they were settled the cassette initiated a hardline connection to transmit the intel he had gathered. The cassette-master smiled as he viewed the ops bots' reactions to their setbacks.

"Looks like our rockin' spy-bots are rollin' with the punches and adjustin' their steps to the new dance. The Dark Queen will be pleased."

The felinoid purred his agreement, but felt it proper to comment, "You certainly didn't help them any."

"The Queen didn't want them to have a gel-cube walk. He felt that a challenge for our titanic trio was important to make 'em bring their A-game, and he's not done with 'em yet. Our stellar leader has one more glitch to throw in the mix."

"Why make it harder? The longer this takes the more intel slips out of our base." the felinoid replied, then started when he caught a fleeting thought in his master's meta. "He know who the spy is? Then, why hasn't he done anything about it?"

"Mah main machine, that is not for us to question. It is the Dark Queen's prerogative to decide when information is leaked, not our."

The two curled up together, finishing their data transfer and began the tedious chore of monitoring the other three cassettes remotely as they too monitored the ops bots.

* * *

Short and with a cliffy, I know. Sorry. My muse is being a pain right now and it took me forever to actually finish this. FF was also being a pain about my formatting and hopefully this turned out readable. I went back and changed Bumblebee's assignment in chapter 2. I also reread chapter 3 and wow did I have some mistakes, that'll teach me to type up a chapter at 11 at night.

On a happier note, I have several other fics that I work on when I reach an impasse with this story but so far I have not posted them. Would ya'll be interested in having those posted as well even knowing that they won't be truly worked on until I finish this story?

Also, I have a Christmas fic that I didn't finish in time to post for December, would ya'll like me to post it anyway or should I save it for next Christmas?

?: Warperchick, were you referring to "Everything Will Change"?

Please, as always, rate, review, and point out my mistakes. (and thank you to Reclusive Owl, Twilightfairy, DarkSirocco, and all those who have found errors and were kind enough to point them out.)


	5. Chapter 5: An Interlude

Look, look, I'm posting early! Usually it takes me a month to type out a new chapter thanks to my RL work, but we have had a lull in business lately that has afforded me more time for writing.

I also have a chapter written for the prequel to this story that I will be posting soon, so look for that on my bio page if you liked this story.

This chapter is less plot development and more character development because I felt my characterizations were becoming one-dimensional.

Remember, rate, review, and correct mistakes, THANKS!

* * *

Bumblebee was tired. All of the setbacks and dead ends of their mission were wearing on him and left him with very little patience for his cover. He was currently out in the old Iacon marketplace having a meeting with one of their neutral suppliers. A supplier that had just attempted to triple his usual rate.

Most neutrals preferred to cater to both factions so that no matter who won they could claim to have supported them. However, as the Decepticon victories became more and more frequent, the neutrals' sypathies began to shift decidedly in the 'Cons favor. Of course, the Autobot's suppliers, greedy thieves that they were, insisted that their contracts would remain intact, but not without a price increase to cover the added risk of course. Frankly, Bumblebee found the whole façade repulsive, but he had a job to do to secure much needed supplies for his faction. This was why he now found himself out here in the open, waiting for his turn to negotiate with the slimy bottom-dweller.

Bee and his partner usually employed a "good enforcer, bad enforcer" style routine, a very basic negotiating tactic with a success rate of ninety percent, with recalcitrant sellers like the current specimen. Thanks to Bumblebee's sweet countenance and friendly personality he was almost always the 'good mech'. His preferred partner for these dealings was a mech designated Huffer, whose skill at complaining, vividly, about everything usually had their sources practically begging to be allowed to speak with Bumblebee and conclude their transactions.

His current partner for this shift, however, was Ramrod, an intimidator who used threats to soften the wayward. "Listen here you overpriced credit pincher! Our bosses have been lenient on you for being such a loyal business partner *ooh, going for the backwards flattery*, but these attempts to drain us will greatly displease them."

Heedless of the mire he would soon find himself bogged down in, the greedy mech struck a haughty pose and tried to return the intimidation. "Well, if you don't like my prices, which I will remind you are barely allowing me to break even *in a turborat's optic!*, then I can take my business elsewhere. However, if you refresh your memory cores you will realize that I am the only supplier left who deals in these ware and you will not be able to find another source, because there are. None. Left. I have been loyal *yeah, tell that to the 'Con frames we found with subspaces full of your merchandise, all conveniently stamped with your logo too*, and have come to do honest business with you at great personal cost to myself *oh I am sure*. Yet all I find are insults and degradation of my industry *ha! If we wanted to degrade your 'industry' we would have listed all the transactions you have recently made with the 'Cons*."

Rather than back down from the threat of cooperation dissolution, Ramrod gave a dark smirk and pulled his ace card. "Oh, go ahead, dissolve our contract, but at least let me warn of the consequences first. If I go back to headquarters and tell my supervisor that you have reneged on our contract, he will turn over our supply problem to Spec Ops. Spec Ops will track down your sources, offer them a more 'lucrative' and 'profitable' deal than you currently have with them, and then plant evidence that will mark you as a devout Autobot supporter, ensuring your immediate deactivation by the very next Decepticon you meet."

By this point the shady dealer was fairly quaking in horror at the lost of losing his income and potentially his life, which meant it was Bumblebee's turn to speak. "Come on Ram, surely we could work something out so it doesn't come to that?"

He put his servo on his partner's shoulder in a play of restraining the other's aggression. Moving swiftly into his new role, Ramrod "hmphed" and stormed off. Having 'placated' his partner's 'ire', Bee turned to the hustler. The poor mech's optics were shining with ill-disguised hope and it crossed Bee's processor that sometimes it was just too easy.

"Now, honorable sir, I do wish to apologize for my friend's abrasive attitude, but sadly his pronouncement is correct. I myself heard our boss talking about his frustrations over our suppliers and he thought it might just be easier if he had Spec Ops cut out the middlemen."

Bumblebee had to struggle to maintain his apologetic, solemn composure when all he wanted was to roll on the ground laughing at the hopeless, dejected look on the businessmech's faceplates, he also looked like he might lubricate himself any nanoklik now in terror. Bee gave his statement a moment to sink in before continuing his manipulation. "I really wish it didn't have to be that way. Businessmechs are a necessary part of a healthy economy and my superiors are really depreciating your value. Alas, I am but a negotiator and although I have tried on numerous occasions to improve their opinions of your esteemed workfellows importance, my bosses still refuse to see your significance."

The supplier began to commiserate with Bumblebee over the devaluing if the common working mech and soon the yellow minibot had established a firm camaraderie over similar 'plights' that they had both suffered. Now that the bait had been firmly taken it was time to close the trap.

"I truly do not desire to see a good business partner, like yourself, lost to the rigors of war. Is there nothing you can offer us that might appease our superiors?"

The supplier began to him-haw, but a pointed glare from the returning Ramrod settled the matter. "I am sure I can give you a suitable deal, you are, after all, my best customers."

A few kliks later Bumblebee was headed back to base. They managed to reduce the price increase from 300% to 15% and received a bonus of a free unit for every fifty purchased.

Mirage was irritated, it was beneath him to be angry, but that emotion was getting harder and harder to deny. Why was he irritated? That could easily be explained by the fact that he was currently pinned to the corridor wall a roughrider-class scout. The scout was not being aggressive, he was simply leaning against what he thought was the wall, and since Mirage refused to decloak, the big lunk would remain thinking that. The scout was currently chatting with a grey and blue-black seeker, and neither seemed ready to move on any time soon. This left the invisible noble to seethe as the lower class mech occasionally rubbed his inferior green armor against the noble's own in an attempt to get more comfortable.

Finally, after what felt like joors, but was really only a few kliks, the two mechs shifted to leave. Mirage was just about to slip away when four security mechs came up and seized him. Before he could protest or even flash his Autobot brand they had slapped him with an emobilizer that effectively paralyzed him right down to his vocalizer. As he was dragged away the green scout turned piercing blue optics on him and spoke in hard voice so unlike the gentle, jovial tones he had used before, "'Con spies should learn not to underestimate the Autobot scout corp."

Blackshot was not happy, Jazz on the other servo couldn't stop laughing, and between them on the S.O. lounge's couch sat a sulking indignant Mirage. The TIC's irritability was justified however, as he had just sprung one of his best operatives from the brig where he was being held under suspicion of being a Decepticon spy. It had been quite a shock when he received the news over a high-frequency ping that Mirage had been captured, by their own side. The point that was making Jazz chortle was the fact that he had been located by the green paint tranfers that the scout had rubbed onto the noble's armor. Blackshot, still unamused, was now waiting on an overdue explaination for the spy's predicament.

"I do not know." Was the blue and white's begrudging answer. "One moment I was standing there enjoying the orderliness of the base's workings and the next I was pinned by that green oaf. I have no idea how he detected me, much less managed to comm security without alerting me."

"Ah can answer that." Came the cheeky interruption from the black and white saboteur.

"Oh?" commented Blackshot, more than ready to hear some answers for the fiasco.

"Well, not the detectin' part, but tha comms mystery's easy. Tha scout was talking ta ah seeka. Seeka's always come in trines n' they c'n talk ova' their trinebonds. So, our scout probableh signaled tha seeka that he'd cornered a spy n' tha seeka told 'is trinemates who commed securiteh."

Blackshot nodded in acceptance of the probable explanation, but that still left how the spy had been detected.

"Sir, could we not just pull the scout in and ask him how he detected me?" proposed Mirage in effort to minimize his humiliation.

"No, I'm afraid not. The base is already rife with rumors that we had a mech spying on our own mechs. If we pull the scout in for questioning it will only confirm those rumors. The informer is already nervous, if we drive him to ground we may never find his contacts."

"What're ya orders then, sir." Jazz answered while the noble visible wilted.

"You need to give the informant some time to get comfortable again, so I suggest taking the time to make some contacts of your own within your current posting. Also, it would be wise to covertly investigate the scout at the same time. It is possible that he just got lucky, but I prefer not to leave these things to chance. If he has a sigma gift that allowed him to find Mirage, well, then we may be able to use that for our own benefit."

"Yessir." Came the twin replies, one chipper and one resigned.

Blackshot finally cracked a smile, "Chinplate up Mirage, every mech has a bad day, it's not the end of the world."

The noble straightened, mortified that he allowed himself to be so lax in his deportment. Blackshot dismissed the two agents and Mirage cloaked them for the trek back to Jazz's quarters.

The walk was conducted silently, but Mirage knew that as soon as they arrived he would be receiving a round of ridicule, as all lower class mechs were wont to do when a noble showed themselves to be less perfect than they pretended. However, the saboteur merely clapped a friendly servo to the spy's shoulder and kindly went off on a tangential topic. Mirage allowed it gladly, his relief and surprise making him uncharacteristically conversational, and, to his further surprise, he found that Jazz was knowledgeable in enough fields to keep the noble' interest.

They chatted amicably for the better part of a joor before Jazz had to go for his first shift in the Medical Wing.

* * *

'Kay so now a word to my reviewer:

Warperchick: I just finished "Everything will Change" and it was such a good read, thanks for pointing it out to me! I can also see your point in the similarities, but I am hoping to go in a slightly different direction.

Demonsurfer: ok, you got me curious. You soooo, have to PM me with who you think my "Dark Queen" is. Also, I am considering refining my gender neutral 'he' usage to make it less confusing, because frankly you're right, most readers will be confused.

Thanks to Gothic-Princess-77 who also reviewed this chapter.


	6. Chapter 6: New Plans

So, this was officially the chapter that would not end. Every time I thought I was at a point where I might be able to end it my muse would present me with another plot point that just had to go in this chapter or it wouldn't fit in the story. *glares balefully at unrepentant muse*

Also, for those who are interested, I am posting a multi-chapter Blaster/Jazz story over on my LJ account (it was one of the reasons this took so long to get posted).

Next chapter also promises to be as long or nearly as long as this chapter and thanks to RL it may be awhile before I get to post it, just FYI. The next chapter will also bring us back to our main plot line a bit and will be the beginnings of that M rating I gave this thing in the first chapter.

Enjoy, and remember this is unbeta-ed so: rate, review, and point out my mistakes, please and thank you!

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When Jazz arrived at the Primary Medbay the first thing he noticed was how clean it was. The second thing he noticed was the soldiers walking about who were clearly uninjured and each was loaded down with cleaning supplies. The third thing was the suspicious looking dents each cleaner sported on their helms.

Filing his curiosity away for later the Polyhexian lost no time in finding a medic so he could check in and receive his shift duties. The medic he found introduced himself as Pipes and offered to give Jazz a tour of the facilities and get him acquainted with the general staff. It was heavily implied that learning their faces and designations was considered vital in keeping the Medical Wing running smoothly, knowledge that the saboteur could see coming in handy during battle triage. All in all there were twenty-three surgeons, not counting the CMO who was out for the orn, seventeen battlefield medics, forty-eight surgeon's aids, two hundred and twelve nurses, and nineteen specialists. Pipes was a battlefield medic, but was undergoing training to become a Joints Specialist.

Jazz was nearly reeling with the inundation of designations in such a short time span and set a background thread in his processor to assign the designations to faceplates so he could clear his thoughts. Fortunately, learning all three hundred and twenty designations would not be expected immediately as the ornly staff was only comprised of two surgeons, their assistants, a battlefield medic or specialist and twenty nurses. The black and white was also surprised when he was told that there were only six other technicians selected for training besides himself.

His curiosity over his selection into finally got the better of him and he posed the query to his guide. Pipes looked puzzled for a moment before replying, "I was not the overseer of that test so I personally would not know, Fixit was the one who volunteered for that job that orn and only he would know his own reasoning. He is on duty today if you would like to ask him?"

The saboteur nodded eagerly, better to settle the matter so his processor could lay that thread to rest. The medic directed him towards an open office and greeted the occupant as they stepped through the door. "Hey Fixit, got a younglin' with a question for you."

Fixit looked up from his datawork to flash a soft creator-like smile at the new technician. "Greetings, please be seated and tell me what's on your processor."

Jazz complied and posed his question again. "Ah was jus' wonderin' why Ah was chos'n ta be a technician cuz as far as Ah c'n see Ah ain't got any special skills tha would 'ave made meh stand out from the rest o' tha candidates."

"On the contrary my dear mechling," replied Fixit with the confidence of a mech with an experienced optic for talent. "You have several gifts that your peers do not. When we first introduced the test subjects you showed an innate sense for where the problems were located even if you were unsure of what exactly was wrong *Ah could hear their parts malfunctionin'; they jus' didn' sound right ta mah audials. Jazz thought*. When we moved onto field repair you showed a delicate but firm touch with steady servos *Bomb trainin'll do tha ta a mech* a necessary requirement for any medical staff. Your servos are also small with slender digits *huh, turns out lockpicker's servos are multifunctional* and you showed no signs of squeamishness when in the presence of frame fluids, again both prerequisites for any medical field."

Jazz took a moment to fully digest the answer and when he was satisfied with it he spoke. "Well, that's a lil' shockin' but Ah think Ah'm okay wit' it."

Fixit gave him the creator-like smile again and dismissed him with wishes for a pleasant shift. After returning the well-wishes and exiting the office Pipes led him to the main bay where a slender femme was waiting.

"Jazz, this is Sliptwist. Sliptwist, this is Jazz. The two of you are shift partners and this will be a permanent arrangement until you graduate from technician status. If during the course of your partnership you find yourselves incompatible you are permitted to ask for reassignment from the orn's head surgeon."

The two technicians exchanged congenial nods with Sliptwist giving a small shy smile to answer the massive grin plastered across Jazz's faceplates, let it never be said that he met a mech he didn't like. The battle medic motioned them to a pair of corner consoles and pulled up identical files on each one.

"The two of you will be studying the basic frame anatomy of a grounder this orn. However, should an injured mech come in you are to show them to a frame-appropriate berth, pull up their file on the berth scanner, and notify the first available on-call medic or surgeon. You are required to shadow the attending physician, and I would suggest taking noted because there will be a decacycle test to assess what you are learning."

Jazz and Sliptwist immediately "Yessired". The battle medic then left them and after exchanging a few introductory pleasantries the settled down to work.

Jazz studied his work until Sliptwist was firmly engrossed in *his own then surreptitiously inserted a datacable into the console. He was almost appalled by the speed in which he was able to bypass the firewalls on the medical files, but that swiftly turned to approval when he realized the only thing he could access was the daylogs and schedules. Whoever had designed the security for the personnel files was very, very good. Being denied access to the easy way of obtaining his quarry's data meant that he would have to attempt a more round-a-bout endeavor. The only other way to get into the mech's files involved getting the mech in question into the medbay itself. He could schedule the mysterious scout for a maintenance check-up, but for that he would need the mech's designation. Easy.

Jazz opened the base personnel file they had all uploaded at orientation, then set it to show only mechs from the scout corp. That yielded a list of one hundred and fifty Autobots. A quick refinement of the search parameters to mechs who also possessed green paint narrowed the list to nine. Mirage had given him a snippit showing the scout from the noble's own memory banks, which made the final identification simple.

The scout's designation was Hound and he was rated Scout 1st Class. Now possessing the needed designation, the Polyhexian returned his attention to the illegally accessed medfiles. He opened the schedule and prepared to enter the scout as a patient during Jazz's next shift. However, it had already been done. Between the lines of code that formed the entry was a tiny datafile that would only be noticed by someone with special training in hacking, someone like Jazz. The saboteur scanned the file stringently for viruses but it came back clean, so he opened it. It was a single line message: "Glad to see you did your research, but since I'm such a nice mech I saved you some trouble." –Blackie

Jazz chuckled as he disconnected from the terminal and returned to his studies. Leave to their commander to turn any situation into a training exercise. Blackshot had probably had the scout's entire life-file on his desk within kliks of hearing about Mirage and was simply using Jazz's team's investigation to assess the mech's threat level whilst reminding them to stay on their pede-tips.

By the time the saboteur got off shift he had learned more about the inner workings of a mech than he had ever wanted to know. He now knew where every neural line, energon line, motion control cord, relay fiber, and transformation cog resided in three different frametypes. His natural ability to learn on the fly coupled with his desire to advance his knowledge, knowing the location of vital parts would help him immobilize or eliminate targets faster thus reducing the potential danger level of his missions, led to finishing the anatomy files at an accelerated rate. Sliptwist had barely finished *his third by the time the Polyhexian had finished the entire set of fifteen. Pipes had been surprised, but definitely pleased, and started the saboteur on the Praxian frame and Seeker frame. He also promised to advance the black and white to more difficult work like Triple-changers and Gestalts should his aptitude for learning continue.

Now however, it was the dark-cycle and Jazz had been sent off to enjoy his down time. The black and white went straight to his quarters knowing both his teammates would be there to hear his verdict upon their altered plan of action.

He found himself correct when he entered his room. Bumblebee was recharging lightly on his berth while Mirage sat quietly reading in one of the chairs.

"Good evening, sir." came the soft cultured tones of the blue and white noble. The quiet greeting woke the yellow minibot who gave his own cheerful greeting to his teamleader. Jazz made himself comfortable in a lazy sprawl across his berth and made a comment that Mirage "oughta be usin' mah designation afta' tha' chat we had earlier" before finally yielding to their expectant looks.

"'Kay, first things first, Bee did 'Raj give ya tha lowdown on what happened earlier?"

A short nod from the other berth.

"'N did he tell ya 'bout Blackshot's orders?"

Another nod.

"Good, fortunately fo' us mah plan is goin' ta mesh nicely wit' our new orders. Durin' mah exams Ah happened ta meet a cassette-master by tha designation o' Blaster. He's tha one who beat meh out fo' the comms job. Now tha two o' us happened ta 'ave a lot in commen so Ah intend ta take us from aquaintances ta best buds. Mechs'll get used ta seein' meh wit' him and won' think nothin' o' meh showin' up ta see him while he's on duty. 'Meantime Bee, Ah want ya ta "run into him" and befriend his cassettes. He's got four of 'em. Two Ah've seen, a felinoid n' a rhinoid, tha otha's were sleepin' so Ah don' kno what their forms are. Ya're an Iaconian n' a minibot n' both're known fo' curiosity, use that. It should probableh also be noted tha Ah promised 'em a bit o' protection, seems there's some ignorance 'bout cassettes bein' sparked n' no one really cares ta get educated, so tha may also be a way inta gainin' their friendship. 'Raj, Ah want ya ta lay low. Ya invisible as it is, but try ta avoid tha main areas where our mystery scout is liable ta hang, least 'til Ah figure out how he 'tected ya. Ah'll take care o' his investigation n' then see 'bout counteractin' him so's ya can roam freely. So, gotcha marchin' orders, now let's get some ena'gon, Ah'm starvin'."

His partners chuckled and followed him out to their preferred commissary. Their trip was without incident thanks to Jazz applying his extensive sensor net to ensure 'The Green One' was not nearby.

Jazz knew he would like Hound the moment the mech stepped ped into the medbay. He was polite and friendly as he informed the techs of his appointment and it was easy to see why Hound had caught the noble spy off guard; the mech fairly exuded an air of unassuming gentility.

Before the saboteur could greet the green mech Sliptwist had insinuated *himself into the position of greeter. The slender green and silver mech was not even trying to hide *his flirtatious overtures, and the knowledge that Slip, who was very shy normally, was a virtual interfacing cyberlion was information that Jazz was diligently trying to scrub from his processor. Luckily, Hound seemed just as put off as the visored mech, not that the erotically swaying femme noticed as *he directed the larger, visibly fidgeting, mech to a berth. After an extremely uncomfortable round of unsolicited come-ons Sliptwist finally had mercy on the nearly catatonic scout and left to notify the attending doctor. While *he was gone Jazz took the opportunity to make himself known.

"Hey there, ya seem uncomf'table. Anythin' Ah c'n do ta help?"

The green roughrider looked up frantically. "Ahm afrayda femmes."

Jazz was shocked by the shameful, whispered confession, but covered it quickly by checking the scout's datachart, which had no annotations indicating such a phobia. "It's not in ya chart mah mech, ya want meh ta make a note o' it fo' ya? It'll prevent this from happenin' ag'in."

The terrified mech nodded gratefully. No sooner had the saboteur entered the notation than Sliptwist was back and glaring daggers at the Polyhexian interloper standing by '*his' patient. Now, normally Jazz had no problems with the little femme but even he knew better than to challenge one who had staked a claim on a mech. Having a very healthy self-preservation instinct the black and white remained quiet and stepped back over to his learning station. Hound let out a faint whine at being abandoned to the clutches of the evil, tittering femme, but Jazz knew the scout's terror would only be lasting a short while longer. The saboteur knew what would occur when the doctor arrive.

True to form, as soon as Lightsout read the datachart he uttered the very words that would bring the scout the most relief. "Technician Sliptwist, I want you to go and organize the paint inventory. I am transferring Technician Jazz to this case."

The visored mech had to stifle a chuckle and concentrate on maintaining a docile composure when he observed Sliptwist's outraged expression. "Sir, what have I done wrong to warrant such a punishment?" *he actually managed to retain control of *his vocalizer and at least feign a semblance of respect when questioning the removal from the presence of *his crush.

The physician, kind mech that he was, saved the green and silver mech from verbal embarrassment by showing *him the chart. The femme read the annotation and straightened in surprise. However, Sliptwist realized that *he could have been saved the embarrassment of this moment had *he done his job and accepted the rebuke of inventory duty. The green and silver mech strode over to the storage, but looked back once, optics filled with sadness for the mech *he could never even speak to simply because of *his frametype.

With the obstacle out of the way Jazz was free to size up his quarry. The scout lived up to his roughrider line, his armor was rugged, angular, and thick. Yet he moved almost silently, an ability that made him a dangerous enemy and wonderful ally, especially when coupled with his Vector Sigma gift, holography. His file suggested that the limit to his gift had never been fully mapped and that he might even be capable of giving the illusion of solidity to smaller images. Jazz immediately began to wonder how the mech had managed to avoid recruitment into Special Operations.

The answer to that question would have to wait though, because Jazz had still not found the answer to Mirage's detection. Perhaps the answer lay within the mech himself. It was a rare occurrence, but occasionally there came about sparks so sensitive they could sense the very presence of any sparks in their vicinity, the All-Spark Blessed. Supposedly these Blessed were mechs that were terminated prematurely causing the Well to return them as a new life. They were almost always empaths or telepaths. Sadly, the Cybertron of the Golden Era had created a stigma against such potentially invasive gifts and caused most Blessed to hide their true natures, even from their medics.

With this suspicion in processor, the black and white paid careful attention to Hound's tones and body language looking for any indicators that would serve as confirmation of the rare gift. While he was distracted Lightsout had given the scout a thorough work-over and was currently speaking to the mech about getting counseling for his fear of femmes. Now that the source of his phobia was gone the green mech's responses were relaxed, but he declined the psychiatric aid.

If Jazz had to pick a single phrase to describe Hound it would be "a right friendly mech." The roughrider would have made a fantastic interrogator, his openness and gentle countenance had already gotten the white and tan medic to pour out his troubles and was well on his way to finally letting his tortured thoughts go. The saboteur was in awe of such a natural info digger and knew that he wanted to befriend this mech who was at the very least a probable source for all the base's personal secrets. Jazz's processor switched tracks immediately and began to prepare a set of conversation openers.

Lightsout finished with the physical exam, and his own emotional purge, a few kliks later and stepped over to a stationary subspace counter to prepare the needed viral updates and firewall boosters. Seizing the opportunity, Jazz struck. "So, what do scouts do 'xactly?"

This mech was an enigma. Hound watched the cheerful visored mech save him from the phantoms of his past embodied in an innocent femme like it was simply another orn's work. At first he thought it was just because he was a nice mech, but when the black and white stepped closer the scout noticed a familiar scent lingering on the mech's armor. It was the smell of the invisible one. Hound was elated! He had not meant to oust one of their own spies and had been looking for the elusive blue mech to apologize. Then his elation turned to apprehension. The visored 'technician' was obviously an associate of the invisible spy, and therefore spec ops as well, and might be looking for retribution on his friend's behalf.

Hound examined the mech from the corner of his optics as the black and white assisted the doctor with his exam. It was through this that he discovered the mech's designation was Jazz. Jazz's cheerful demeanor never wavered though, and it almost seemed like he intended to befriend the scout. Hound's thoughts whirled in a momentary logic loop, what could the blue spy's ally gain from becoming his friend? Did he mean to lure the roughrider into some trap?

Intrigued, but still wary, Hound decided to humor the visored mech. Maybe, if he was lucky, he could tract the invisible one through Jazz, apologize, and hopefully assuage the black and white's ire before it could come down upon the scout's helm. The best case scenario also might result in Hound gaining both their friendships.

It was for this reasoning that the green grounder answered truthfully when the visored mech began his questioning and eagerly engaged in friendly conversation. It continued until the exam visit was over, but neither mech had satisfied their mutual curiosity for the other. This led to a promise to meet up for mid-orn energon, which then resulted in several subsequent meetings.

The invisible spy never showed, but his scent remained fresh upon Jazz's plating. This evidence of continued contact kept Hound's attention on the black and white as his only source, although as the orns passed the scout found his tentative acquaintance deepening into a genuine companionship that appeared to be shared mutually by the visored grounder.

After almost a full decacycle Hound began to notice a pattern. If Jazz came off shift before their meetings the alluring scent would be faded, but if he came from his quarters the smell would be cling to him like a pungent veil.

This caused the roughrider to alter his plans. Using his huntsmen-built signal dampener and Vector Sigma-gifted holography, Hound took to lurking around his new friend's quarters until he finally caught scent of his quarry.

Thus began a game of hide and seek as the green mech sought to corner the spy for an overdue apology.

A decacycle after the altered plans had been put into action Mirage was sure he was being stalked. At first he thought it was just paranoia left over from his shocking capture, but after the tenth time of spotting the Green Menace, as the noble had labeled him, Mirage was sure it was no coincidence. The blue and white got in plenty of 'practice' in magically slipping away as the orns went by, but enough was enough. It was bad enough that Ops had released counter-rumors that stated the noble was a trainee and walking the base invisible had been a controlled test for the real field of battle. A test that he purportedly failed, thanks to the Green Menace. It rankled his plating to be thought of as inferior and he was not going to tolerate being followed by the instigator of his humiliation too.

Unfortunately, thanks to the Ops lockdown, he was not permitted any contact with non-ops mechs and confrontation was therefore out of the question. So, instead he circled back around through the less used corridors to hopefully hide in Jazz's quarters until his pursuer gave up.

Mirage thought he had eluded the Green Menace and was comfortable ensconced in Jazz's lounge chair, a suspicious duplicate of the ones found exclusively in the Ops lounge. He was happily conversing with his partners, enjoying the unanticipated camaraderie, when the door chime sounded. The noble swiftly cloaked himself and moved to the far corner of the room, so the unexpected visitor would not notice him, while Jazz rose to answer the chime.

When the door slid back it revealed the penitent form of a certain green scout.

* * *

Yeah, I kinda feel bad for making Hound afraid of femmes, but when I get around to writing his backstory it will make sense, promise.


	7. Chapter 7: Until Offlining Do Us Part

Not much to say today, beside, phew, glad that's over. This chapter has reached an alltime high for number of words and took forever to type (especially since I am a slow typist). Also, I have decided that Blaster, and by association Soundwave, are members of the sparked furniture line. For more info on sparked furniture, I suggest reading "Recline the Berthformer" or some of Gatekat's more historical-esque TF fics as those are my sources for this particular frametype.

On another note, my sister and I are both rabid TF fans and we got into a discussion the other day about Transformers Armada. Did ya'll know that show is by far one of the most perverse TF shows to date? Why do I say this? Well let's see, Sideways' transformation sequence causes his main body to shove its way up the crotch of the head-body to connect (and don't get me started on the connotations of 'connections'); Megatron has a crotch cannon; Thrust is shaped like a ****; most of the Decepticons are accepted rapists (minicon forced uplinks); and Starscream is a pedophile, because there is no other way to explain the odd attraction between him and Alexis. It shocked me when we realized just all that was being portrayed in this supposed 'kids show'.

So, now that I have vented that bit of disturbing news, please, enjoy my story.

Disclaimer: can ya'll believe I forgot to put this in until now? I do not own the Transformers or any of their media, logos, etc. They belong to someone else whose name escapes me at the moment and I am, admittedly, to lazy to look it up.

* * *

Chapter 7:

The tavern was dark when he entered, really it was little more than a blackened hole beneath the half crumbled wall of the factory that had once stood behind the drinking establishment. It had been abandoned shortly before the bombing that had leveled most of Iacon and was therefore blessedly empty of sparkless frames. The Autobots were stretched so thin trying to protect their assets that clean-up had fallen low on the priority scale and a wrong turn into an untended area often revealed a grisly view of exploded, shrapnel-skewered frames still lost in the throws of a terrible death. The lack of this to oft seen horror was a grand relief to the monochrome mech as he slipped inside. The absence also made it impossible for an infiltrator to hide as one of the offline and therefore his meeting with his master would go unobserved.

As the matte black mech made his way to the back of the deserted bar a shadow disengaged itself from the wall and made itself known. The black mech stopped, still partially sheltered by the remaining piece of the bar, and pinged the shadow for an ident-code. Codes were swapped and safe-words confirmed before both parties relaxed minutely in the presence of a trusted partner.

"Tempo… your last report was most informative, what have you to add that cannot be trusted to the usual routes?"

"Thanks," replied the spy, bowing deferentially to his superior. "Broadcast tapped the link yesterorn, but thanks to our target's renewed interest in me I will be unable to attend. I was wondering how you wanted to handle the transfer."

The shadow's optics cycled in thought for a moment. "Send Gadget to the rendezvous point, his data storage should be sufficient for the job and his absence can be explained as medical leave for another mod."

There was a soft rotating noise from the black mech's chest and his optics dimmed as though he were listening to something. A grin and stifled chuckle later, the spy explained, "Gadget wants to know if that means he is being given permission to actually _get_ a new mod."

The shadow smiled, a wistful one full of affection that the war did not permit to be shown. "Yes, that is permission, and don't worry about the White Queen, I'll explain it to *him."

"Thank you Dark Queen."

"Your welcome, now skedaddle. You have a target to watch and an excursion to plan. Say 'hi' to 'Cast for me." The shadow melted back into the gloom and disappeared. The spy left just as carefully, dodging from shelter to shelter until he reached the Autobot base. He reentered by crawling through the old tunnel system and was allowed back in by the cassettes who had been assigned guard duty to this area due to their small size. Rewind and Eject hugged him, grateful that he was back inside where it was safe. The spy allowed his matte black stealth paint to fade into his normal colors of cheery red and yellow.

"Hey mah trippin' bitty bots, I missed ya too, but the D.Q.s got us some new dancin' instructions."

0o0o0o0

Jazz was having the time of his functioning. His friendship with Blaster was going so well it seemed almost pre-ordained. The two of them had so much in common it was unbelievable and they often lost track of time when they met up, as attested to by Jazz's team having to remind the saboteur of his duty shifts no less than six times. On the seventh almost late arrival to his shift the Polyhexian started setting an internal alarm, to the great relief of his team.

It was also becoming commonplace for either the cassette-master or the 'medtech' to seek the other out when one was on-duty but the other not, to provide the working mech with some entertainment. Although Blaster was sticking with comm calls after an incident with Ratchet, DMS, MHA, MD, CMO, esq. That terrifying encounter had left both mechs with a sudden phobia of flying medical equipment. Jazz also could now lay to rest that question he had posed about those dented soldiers.

Still though, the fact that mecha didn't even give him a passing glance when he came to see the red and yellow commsmech was a boon worth almost any price. His free reign on that deck had allowed him to slip several discreet recording devices and a single search virus into the communications array that hopefully would help root out whoever Rapidburst was talking to. Jazz had considered attaching a virus to the outgoing datastreams to try and identify the 'Con on the receiving end. However, he was concerned that it might alert the double agents to the whole investigation.

Instead, the black and white just bided his time and waited for the spy to slip up. While he waited, the saboteur cum medtech took the opportunity to further his relationship with Blaster. It was reaching the point where most outsiders had begun to think they were interfacing and there was even rumor that a betting pool had been set up. When these rumors reached the pair, via Hound the everloyal mech that he was, they just laughed, pointed at one another in soundless incredulity, and laughed again.

Then the problem started. Hound had shown himself to be funny, reliable, and genteel, but Jazz was no closer to uncovering the mech's secret than the orn they first met. To top that off, it appeared the scout had connected Jazz to Mirage and was using the saboteur to stalk the noble. This of course was making the blue and white extremely paranoid, to the point where Mirage was almost ready to use the 'dirty' vents as an alternate route.

It all decided to culminate one orn when Mirage burst back into Jazz's secure quarters not five kliks after having left to deliver a status update to Blackshot. The noble curled himself into Jazz's chair and started asking Bumblebee about his orn. The minibot arched an optic ridge at the odd behavior and leveled a look at his teamleader as if to say 'you're in charge and technically this is your fault, fix it.' However, Jazz ignored it and engaged the evasive spy in some distraction conversation.

Then the chime signaled somemech at the door. The _not hiding_ spy shot out of his appropriated chair and took a very defensive stance in the corner. The look in his optics pleaded with Jazz not to open the door, but the saboteur had had enough. It was time to resolve the issue once and for all. With that in mind the black and white strode over and opened the door, leaning on its frame with his characteristic grin in place. He was expecting Hound to be on the other side, but was not expecting the downcast, almost downtrodden, expression across the mech's faceplates. The scout looked like someone had kicked his turbohound puppy, no pun intended, and the Polyhexian found himself compelled to offer whatever comfort he could.

"Hey mah mech, what's wit' tha droopy face? Ya in trouble or summat?"

"No Jazz, I'm fine. May I come in?"

The saboteur waved the other in with a sweeping flourish, but took the chair so Hound would sit on the berth, away from Mirage's corner.

"So, ya gonna tell meh wha's gotcha mood all off-kilter?"

If anything that statement seemed to make the green mech wilt even more. "Well, I made a mistake. I thought I was doing my job, but I ended up messing up someone else's. It was unintended and I wanted to apologize to them. But they're so mad at me that they don't want me anywhere near them."

By the way Hound's mournful optics swept over the cloaked noble in the corner Jazz knew that, yet again, the scout had detected the supposedly untraceable spy. It was also very obvious to the black and white that the roughrider was sincere in his regret, but if Mirage did not wish to acknowledge the apology then Jazz would not force the issue. That did mean he would stop being a good friend though.

"Hound mah main machine, 'm sorreh yah c'n't 'pologize, but tha ain't ya fault. If'n ya tried n' were turned away then ya done all ya could. 'Sides, sometimes mechs gotta have time ta get their processors straight n' cool down afor' they c'n reconcile wit' someone who has offended 'em."

The scout glanced up, a glimmer of hope starting to kindle in his spark. "You think so?"

"Ah kno so." Jazz declared with a grin, watching as Hound regained some of his normal cheer and straightened from his slump. "But, Ah'm curious, jus' what didja do tha' was s'bad?"

The green roughrider had the grace to look sheepish. "You remember that incident a couple of decacycles ago with the mech that got caught spying in the hall, but turned out to be one of our own?" a short nod indicated the saboteur did. "Well, I was the one who caught him and according to what I could gather later, he got in a whole parcel of trouble thanks to me."

Jazz gave a low whistle. "How'd ya catch him?"

Now, Hound was not stupid and it suddenly dawned on him just why a close associate of the blue spy would be pursuing him. If Jazz had been a normal soldier then his response would have been something along the lines of 'Served the slagger right for spying on his own', but the black and white's known contact with the spy eliminated that possibility. Hound had, admittedly, been concerned that Jazz was out for vengeance on his friend's behalf, but then any comments should have taken a format to determine remorse or guilt. The fact that the 'medtech' was only interested in the roughrider's method of detection caused Hound to realize that he was being investigated as a potential threat to a valued SpecOps asset. This also caused Hound to re-assess the veracity of the rumors that suggested the spy was a rookie in training.

Regardless, the scout was not particularly secretive and was quite willing to answer truthfully. "I smelled him."

The Polyhexian's optic ridge arched as his face showed stunned disbelief. "Ya wha'?"

"I smelled him. I am hunter-clan, and as is tradition, I was implanted with extremely sensitive olfactory sensors to aid me in furthering the clan's functions. The sensitivity to scents that I would have once used to locate and track wild mechanimals has come in very handy in sourcing out 'Cons and where they've been. Normally I don't pay much heed to the scents inside our base, but his smell was very unusual. It reminded me of newly shined chrome and crystal dust. At first, I thought my friend had managed to acquire some noble-class wax, he was planning on a romantic dark-cycle with his trinemates, but then the smell moved behind me. Smells don't just move arbitrarily and there was nomech _visible_ who could have shifted between me and the wall. So, on a hunch, I leaned back. The rest is, well, well-known thanks to the prolific rumors that Thundercall's trine gleefully spread." Throughout the entire narrative Hound's faceplates had shown open neutrality, but the last statement was met with a decidedly rueful grimace. Jazz was shocked by the simplicity and utterly convinced that the scout was telling the truth.

Hound was glad to have cleared the atmosphere, so to speak, with a mech he had happily come to call friend. They discussed a few more pleasant topics with Bumblebee finally feeling comfortable enough to join in, before the scout felt he needed to leave. He knew that the blue spy had been huddling in the corner the whole time and took pity upon how cramped and uncomfortable he must have been. So, Hound stood, bid Jazz and Bumblebee a good orn, and left.

The door slid shut and Jazz rounded on the corner, arms akimbo, with impatient expectance. Mirage rematerialized with a defiant glar, wrapping his noble superiority around himself in a haughty shield.

"What?" he sniffed, nasal ridge upturned in rebellious disdain. Jazz rolled his optics behind his visor and widened his stance to cock one hip out. "Ya kno what. He was pourin' 'is spark out n' practic'lleh beggin' ya ta fo'give 'im, n' wha' do ya do?! Ya give 'im da col' shouldah."

The Polyhexian's accent had become so thick in his passionate exclamation that Mirage was having genuine difficulty understanding him. The noble knew his teamleader was disappointed in him, but it was none of his business. He was about to deliver a scathing retort when he realized that it was not his _teamleader_ who was disappointed, it was his _friend_. That caused Mirage to faulter and drop all his arrogant pretenses in shame. He glanced over to Bumblebee, who had remained silent the whole time, but his face bore a look similar to Jazz's. Unable to meet the optics of either of his friends, the spy tried to explain. "How can I forgive the one who had destroyed all the respect that I have worked so hard to earn?"

Sensing a larger, underlying problem, Jazz relaxed his stance and sank onto the berth. "What are ya talkin' 'bout 'Raj? Bee n' Ah still respect ya!"

The noble gave them a sad half-grin. "And for that I am most grateful. I do not know what I would do if you two were to laugh at me too."

Bumblebee leaned forward, a serious expression darkening his faceplates, as he entered the conversation at last. "Who's laughing at you?"

"Everyone. It has always been difficult for me to associate with other mecha because they can never see past my noble heritage. I tried at first, but everyone expected me to be snooty or consider myself above the 'common mechs'. Despite all my efforts to prove otherwise, they still treated me as an outcast. Eventually, it just became easier to distance myself from the others. I was also often accused of using my former status to obtain my current rank and position, and it has only been by virtue of vorns of perfection in the completion of my missions that I have been able to silence the most fervent of my antagonists. My undetectable and untraceable reputation has been ruined by that bumbling scout and all my former detractors are rearing their ugly helms again to defame me. So tell me, just why should I forgive the mech who has caused all that?"

Jazz and Bumblebee just looked at him in sorrow. They had heard that there was still discrimination amongst the Autobots, Pit, the cassettes were proof of that, but usually it stemmed from ignorance, not a purposeful intolerance. So, it was with a heavy spark that Jazz replied to the noble spy's vehement declaration. "'Raj, Ah'm not sayin' tha' what they done is right, n' we gotcha back if'n ya wan' some backup, but ya c'n't blame Hound fo' their prej'dice. Ya need ta think 'bout this from his perspective. He's a loyal 'Bot n' ta his thinkin' true Autobots would walk aroun' openleh, not ghostin' round under a cloak. Ya gotta admit tha' if ya found an unknown mech sneakin' 'round like ya was, ya would be s'spicious too. N' yak no, if'n ya gave him a chance ya might find ya got 'nother friend who'll defend ya 'gainst the naysayehs."

The blue spy graced him with a skeptical look, but unenthusiasticly relented, "I will give your suggestion a due amount of deliberation, but I make no promises."

The saboteur and minibot spy were not happy that their friend was continuing to be stubborn, but understood that a long history of hurt made it difficult for the noble to easily open up to others.

0o0o0o0

Fate had apparently decided that the Autobots' functionings had become too stagnant, and so, to spice things up, a Decepticon attack occurred. There was no ground incursion, but the Seekers and other flight-capable 'Cons were bombing the base like their sparks depended upon it. Autobot Command had tentatively decided that the fliers were probably attempting to soften them up for a more invasive attack yet to come. The gunners just laughed at the idea of anything short of a planetary break-up being able to 'soften' _their_ base as they powered up the massive defensary armaments and proceeded to remind the 'Con fliers just why a direct assault was such a bad idea.

The true purpose of the bombing run was not discovered for nearly two joor, and even then its discovery was accidental.

A lucky strike managed to destroy one of the comm spires, the resulting powersurge overloaded the console it fed into, fused the datacords of the jacked in commsmech to the console ports, and shorted out a large majority of the mech's internal relays. Normally, this would not be considered spark-threatening and the affected mech would be carted to the medbay for the time-consuming, but simple, endeavor of having the blown circuits replaced. What made this event so dangerous, and resulted in a medical team being sent to the patient, were the fused datacords. The mech's metaphysical self had been fully immersed in his station and the surge had destroyed the relays that would have allowed him to return to his frame. Severing the cords would, at best, result in a fractured meta, and at worst, leave them with a spark trapped in a processor-dead frame.

When the call came through to the Medical Wing, Jazz immediately volunteered to assist the assigned medic. He had gotten a very bad feeling in his spark ever since the first bomb fell and the saboteur felt an overwhelming need to be sure his best friend was safe.

The triage team was still half the base away when the Polyhexian's audials picked up the first screams. The visored mech abandoned his group to race ahead and hopefully thwart whatever or whoever had infiltrated the base before they did any damage. He skidded to a stop at the final corner and unsubspaced a small mirror. The screams had ceased which was making him antsy, but he knew that rushing in could get him killed. If his caution meant no survivors, then at least he would still be functioning to avenge the fallen.

Jazz slid the mirror just past the wall's edge and saw that the hall was empty. Still wary of unseen intruders, the black and white crouched down to skulk carefully over to the Comms Deck entrance. The door had been hacked, meaning it was permanently open until the hacker lifted the override, so the saboteur used his mirror again to check the status of the room. He counted five Decepticon covert operatives and eleven empty frames, the total number of their entire Communications Division sans one. Despite knowing that all members of Comms were supposed to be on duty during a battle Jazz could see no sign of Blaster's frame anywhere.

Although still mourning for the departed sparks of mechs he had been friends with, it gave him hope that the cassette-master might still be functioning.

The Polyhexian knew that he needed to call for back-up to deal with the threat, for although he was quite capable of taking care of these five by himself, the medical staff would soon arrive and he did not have an excuse that would allay their suspicions. A 'normal' soldier would not be able to down five ruthless assassins in close combat without it being a setup, and Jazz had no desire to visit the brig while being investigated for being a spy. It would be the Mirage Fiasco all over again.

However, there was a major snag. In order to get back-up he would have to use the comm links, which were currently under Decepticon control, and would undoubtedly alert the invaders that the gig was up. Luck might still be with him though, there was an ancient Ops code that had been designed to appear as a light static under the normal comm chatter until it was filtered through a false vocalizer. The code would then register as a sequence of musical tones that would stand for letters and glyphs depending upon the number and pitch of each set of notes. The glyphs and letters could then be transposed into any number of cipher algorithms as preset by those who were using the musical transmission.

Since there was no one who would possess a counter-algorithm, Jazz could not do much more than send a basic uncoded message through the music cipher and hope for the best.

A few kliks later, just as the triage team rounded the corner, the saboteur cum medtech received an answer, -:-_message received, response to situation en route_-:-

Jazz motioned to the rejoining group to get low and stay quiet. He checked around the door again, curious as to why the 'Cons were not watching their backs. The enemy mechs appeared to be preoccupied with the ventilation shafts, but before he could may any conjectures on that oddity, his backup arrived.

The reinforcements though, were not what, or rather who, Jazz had been expecting. Three femmes, whose beauty disguised their untold deadly grace, now stared a him with amused expressions. They knew they were not what he expected and instead of taking offense they found humor in it. The leader of the tiny group was positively the tallest femme the saboteur had ever seen and bore testament to an unusual code-distribution in that *he was also a triplechanger. Gleaming black plating was criss-crossed with golden highlights and bright splashes of crimson. However, despite the regal-looking armor, the triplechanger showed a decidedly impish air. Especially when *he gave the dazed Polyhexian a roguish grin and wink as *he and the smaller femmes glided noiselessly into the Decepticon infested Comms Deck.

Chafing under the restrictions of his undercover guise, Jazz could only watch the short functioning mayhem as the battle savvy Autobot mecha tore through the unprepared Decepticon assassins like a plasma cutter through untempered armor. When the last graying chassis dropped from the claws of its femme executioner, the awed black and white motioned the med team to enter.

There were no survivors. Jazz dutifully helped in turning over each grey frame in hopes that even one spark might be saved, but it was futile. The visored mech's grief driven anger came to a head when he overturned the offlined form of Rapidburst. He figured that the 'Cons had somehow learned that their spy had been discovered and chose to remove the weak link under the façade of sabotaging the Autobot's communications.

Jazz's impotent rage was internalized savagely, for to give voice to the roiling storm in his processor would be to subject himself to scrutiny for the depth of his reaction, and possible psychological counseling. Alternatively, he focused on the quiet sounds of the living mecha in the room to calm himself. It was during this moment of listening that he caught the tiny sounds of something scuffling up in the vents. Grinning malevolently at the thought of possibly having another 'Con on which to express his displeasure, the saboteur leaped up to grab a convenient ceiling pipe with a magnetized servo, and yanked off the access grate.

The saboteur's rage melted into relieved surprise when he found himself visor to optics with Steeljaw. On the felinoid's back rested a red and yellow datacrystal player. Joy filled his lightened spark when the Polyhexian saw that his city-kin had indeed remained safe and he offered a servo to the crouching cassette to aid his descent.

After they reached ground level, Blaster resumed his mech-form and found himself enveloped in a tight embrace from his distraught friend. Returning the desperate hug, the cassette-master tried to console his counterpart. "Shhh, it is alright mech, I'm safe. I'm not goin' anywhere."

"Ah kno, but Ah heard tha screamin' n' then… n' then when Ah got'ere… all the offline frames… Ah knew ya were s'posed ta be here… Ah thought…" Jazz took a moment to do a quick reboot and settle his systems. "Ya neva' 'llowed ta do tha' ta meh 'gain, ya hear meh?"

Blaster gave his friend a soft smile. "You got it mah Main Machine. So, on a different tune, how'd you offline tha assassins? I know you have a bit of combat trainin', but most of these medics should have been slaughtered like cyberkittens."

"Tha femmes took care o' them. Was a sight ta behold!" replied the grateful saboteur.

The commsmech looked around in confusion. "What femmes?"

Jazz spun around to see a room of medics, but no femmes, "Huh, guess they must a had 'nother job ta do n' hadta leave." It did not really matter to the visored mech, Blaster was safe and that was the important thing. Well, the fact that their mission was going to suffer another setback thanks to Rapidburst's offlining was important too, but he would fret about it later.

0o0o0o0

Eventually, the seekers figured out that their infiltration team had been killed and the bombing was called off. Autobot Command still waited an extra joor to be sure there would be no further attacks, then returned the base to its normal standby status.

Jazz was allowed to go since his regular shift had ended several joors earlier and the Polyhexian made his way swiftly to his quarters to start writing up his report for Blackshot.

There was a strange datacrystal on his berth. As much as Jazz loved clutter, he could tell anyone exactly where to find any given item with perfect accuracy. The true purpose of his ever-shifting 'sorting' system was to befuddle enemy spies and prevent them from obtaining sensitive data. However, he never, ever left anything on his berth, ever. Wary, the visored grounder scanned the room with every setting his blue optic shield possessed. There were no booby-traps or explosives anywhere, so Jazz inched forward to nudge the crystal. Nothing. Satisfied that there were no external traps, he carefully hooked the datacrystal up to a disposable memory core to check for viruses and other nasty coding surprises. Again, nothing.

After he had exhausted every method to test for subterfuge and the crystal came up clean every time, he decided it might be safe to access the stored files. Still he was not going to be so foolish as to plug it into himself, instead he downloaded the contents directly to one of his reinforced ops-grade datapads.

The crystal only held two things, a comm number and a short message, which read:

"Spark's end does not the mission terminate. Look not to the verbal cues, seeker of justice, and you will find the evidence you crave. Should the light of understanding not grace your meta, call for aid and it will find you. Be not surprised by the form it will take."

Ok… cue the cryptic and mysterious benefactor. Because that's just what Jazz needed to make his already complicated functioning complete. The Polyhexian put the pad and crystal aside with a roll of his unseen optics and began composing his report. Halfway through, it dawned upon him that he would have to include a segment on his 'gift'. Someone out there apparently knew more about Jazz's mission than the musically designated mech himself did. Joy.

0o0o0o0

The lack of ground fighting had given Mirage plenty of time to do as he had promised and think realistically about the situation with Hound. Unfortunately, it was just making his thoughts go in circles. So, he walked the base in the hopes that physical activity might alleviate his troubled processors.

All the suffering he endured, but it was not brought on intentionally. Being treated as less than a Cybertronian, but the scout was just doing his job. Mirage was innocent yet unjustly regarded, but Hound was also not at fault for that.

The spy's helm was beginning to ache.

He turned down the corridor that would eventually lead to the upper levels and the observation towers. Interestingly, the current pain in his metaphysical diodes just so happened to turn the opposite corner and come in the direction of the invisible noble. Mirage was about to turn back the way he had come when he really got a look at the other.

The roughrider looked terrible. His shoulders were slumped and his optics dim. To the blue mech's optics he resembled one whose spark had just been shredded and had the broken remains dumped in his lap. It was this sight that finally drove Mirage to a decision. He decided he never wanted to see that look on Hound's faceplates again, especially not when there was something the noble could do about it.

Remaining cloaked, Mirage stalked silently down the hall til his path converged with the scout's. Drawing up all his courage, the spy uttered the one phrase he never thought he could yield to 'The Green Menace.'

"I forgive you."

Hound froze. He had been so wrapped up in his melancholic thoughts that he had not even registered when the noble's scent had reached his olfactory sensors. The green mech stared in disbelief at what his audials were registering. _He was forgiven?! But the spy hated him!_ His shock caused him to ask incredulously for clarification. "Excuse me, what?"

Mirage had begun to walk away, but he turned at the exclamation. He decloaked so the other could clearly see his emotions on his faceplates. "I said, I forgive you. Now chin up, I liked you better when you were happy." he restated with a coy smile.

_He likes me!_ Hound's mood swung wildly from depressed to ecstatic. Knowing that this would be his only opportunity to befriend the spy, the scout took the plunge. "Would you like to visit the commissary with me?"

The noble hesitated, vascillating between staying out of sight of his detractors or finally making a new friend like Jazz had so pointedly suggested. The look of pleading hope on Hound's faceplates made the choice for him. "That would be lovely. I would enjoy accompanying you."


	8. Chapter 8: An End to a Long Orn

Well, chapter 8 decided to write itself which means ya'll get it early.

Thanks to all my reviewers for their support and patience between chapters. Nikkie2010 - yes, the role of Queens does have significance and will probably get explained sometime in the next few chapters *happy grin for plot movement*; our beloved tactician actually managed to get out of the black abyss my muse threw him in and has her currently cuffed to a chair so he could get some air-time. Sadly, for all the Hound/Mirage lovers, this pairing has gone as far as I intended for _this_ story and other than a few cameos they will not make another major appearance until the sequel, where we will get a little more into their saga. My reason for this is because I don't believe in fast love and I want to give them some time to develop a relationship behind the scenes.

Incidentally, my head-space Jazz looked over my shoulder and read this story while I was typing the last monster, I mean chapter, and he thinks I am a total slagger for constantly killing all his good idea. I agree with him, but unfortunately for him, I enjoyed every minute of it.

As for our dead spy Rapidburst, poor thing, I had his death planned since chapter 1.

Oh, and in case ya'll had not noticed, last chapter was the beginning of the reason for that M rating.

Now, on to the story...

-:-comm chatter-:-

::bond talk::

* * *

Chapter 8:

It was a known and accepted fact that Prowl functioned for his job. His strict adherence and insistence on the use of proper dataforms was renowned across the army. Even the Decepticons were well-versed on the Autobot SIC's apparent love of all things work. In truth, the Praxian despised dataforms. The unending stacks that piled across his desk were not a haven to him, they were a frustration that invariable caused him a processor ache every orn. Why then did he insist on using them all the time? Because the one thing Prowl was, was a stickler for the rules. Without rules the world was chaos; chaos was Decepticon. Prowl was not a Decepticon. The rules demanded dataforms. So, Prowl filled out stacks of dataforms. This seeming incongruity with the SIC's base programming as a tactician would have puzzled most, but then, most did not take into account the difference between dataforms and datawork. A love for one did not equate a love for both. Prowl could spend joors of his offduty time sifting through raw data for that perfect bit that would allow him to complete his mission plan, and at the end he would be completely relaxed. Ask him to do the same with the dataforms and at the end you would find a frustrated, I'm-going-to-cut-you-off-at-the-peds-if-you-speak- to-me-again angry tactician. Smokescreen was a prime example of this. Prowl's trinemate despised forms and avoided using them at all costs, yet he loved datawork so much that he was one of the finest diversionary tacticians in the army. Once, Prowl had punished his mate with dataform duty for an orn; it took the poor mech nearly a decacycle of Psycho-Analyst duty to recover his poise.

The black and white Praxian was much the same in opinion, but he could not afford to shirk his responsibility like his Beta. His understanding that dataforms helped keep the army running smoothly by providing accountability usually aided him in getting through it. He still hated filling them out though, and having to correct others' poorly completed forms only compounded the sentiment.

The worst though, was crisis forms. Crisis' would cause a doubling or tripling in the number of stacks of his desk and meant that his job as Head Tactician was put on hold while he pulled several full dark-cycle shifts in a row on top of his normal shift work. It was during orns like these that he would think back fondly upon the secretary he had once employed to deal with the stacks. The mech had loved filling them out and sorting them by priority so all Prowl had to do was sign the important ones. It made both of their functionings very pleasant. Sadly, that mech had been killed a few vorn into the war during an assassination attempt on the doorwinger SIC and it had struck the Praxian's spark heavily that another had ceased to function because of their proximity to him. After that he could not bring himself to hire anymech else. Not that anymech actually knew that was his reason. The majority had assumed he was just asserting his natural controlling nature, which was considered typical for a tactician, and it was further propagated by his own statement that taking both jobs would increase efficiency by decreasing the number of optics to see any given form.

Prowl still hated it, especially now when he had to file bereavement forms, inactive/deceased unit forms, compensation forms for surviving family, asset distribution forms, and vacant quarters forms. Not to mention half a dozen different reports on how the infiltration had occurred, why it was not detected, and what was going to be done to prevent another such occurrence.

There were orns when the Praxian was convinced that the voluminous amounts of dataforms connected to any one incident were some sort of Decepticon plot to offline him slowly.

After all the forms were completed, checked, and filed, Prowl received the distinct displeasure of getting to issue requisition forms to transfer replacement comm officers from other bases. He also promoted the sole survivor of their own unit to Chief of Communications with a stiff recommendation that he complete his lieutenant's training A.S.A.P. so he would have a comparable physical rank. Then he transferred the standby commsmech out of the Medical Division, thankful that he had had the foresight to give that stipulation to his placement. The doorwinger was still positive that he would be receiving a visit from the indomitable Ratchet later that orn to complain about the loss of a talented intern, or at least that would be the public reason. Ratchet was one of Prowl's few surviving friends, but neither celebrated the long-lasting companionship openly, they did have rather oppositely characterized hard-afted reputations to uphold after all. However, after every tough battle or mission the Praxian knew he could trust the doctor to find some excuse to pound down his door. Then they would spend a joor 'arguing' with highgrade and sympathetic shoulders for the enevitable meltdowns.

His anticipation of that moment when he would be able to expunge his feelings of failure and find reassurance, gave him the strength he needed to slog through the rest of the datapad mountain range erected on his desk.

0o0o0o0

"So… let's start with a short synopsis, just so I can make sure everyone is on the same pad." said Blackshot as he looked sternly at his crestfallen ops squad later that same darkcycle. "First, you don't make the cut for comms, which I don't really blame yo for since that Praxian hard-aft was in charge of it. Secondly, Mirage got captured, thus putting a spotlight on our operation and forcing us to back off any more forward plans we were might have had. Then, we finally got a break with that commsmech only to have that avenue burned because the 'Cons got tipped off and cut their losses, literally. Autopsy showed Rapidburst's major energon lines were all severed. And now, we have a mystery mech who may possess valuable info, but wants to play games with us. So, have I left anything out?"

The three hung their helms and answered in the negative. Blackshot leaned back in the chair he had commandeered and rubbed his nasal ridge. "Well, there is one last problem to be addressed before we start looking for new solution. Jazz," the addressed saboteur raised his helm to look his commander in the optics. If he was going to be singled out for chastisement, he would at least receive it with dignity.

"Jazz, I just want to confirm a point of confusion from your last report. In it you stated that you sent a coded message via music cipher to SpecOps, who dispatched a group of available femmes to provide backup. The only problem with that is that Ops has no record of ever receiving your messeage, so my question is, who were you talking to?"

"Ah don' kno," Jazz replied, wide-optic'd. "but someone replied an affirmative. Is it possible tha' whoeva' answered meh is tha same mech who left tha crystal?"

The commander tucked his chin down. "I'm thinking so, and whoever it is has connections in the Femme Division. While I have no doubt that any femme group who noticed your plight would have stepped in to render aid, I know for a fact that no such group was legally operating in the area. That means a covert team was pulled off assignment to help you and that does not happen without someone pulling some strings."

"So why are we not using that comm number?" Mirage interposed. "It seems to me that anyone with those kinds of connections, who is willingly offering assistance, should be taken up on their offer before it is detracted."

"That is an option. However, I am hesitant to allow it." Blackshot stated, crossing his arms over his thoracic armor. "If I know the femmes, and I do, then they are going to want something in trade for their services. I am concerned that the price may be too high."

"Yessir, but if I may interject," replied Bumblebee. "there is no harm in at least calling them. We can ask for their price up front and if we don't like, we can decline or negotiate for better terms."

"Yeah, and sureleh tha femmies are n't tha' callous as ta wit'hold info tha' would otha'wise jeopardize tha safeteh o' tha 'Bots. They would be declared traitors by even tha Prime himself fo' such behavior." Jazz added.

"No, they would not withhold information, but they would make us work for it instead of giving it freely." Blackshot rubbed his nasal ridge again as he resigned his misgivings for the good of the mission. "I don't trust the femmes, but your suggestions do have merit. You have my permission to contact the benefactor. However, none of you are permitted to meet with them without backup present, if they don't like that, oh well. You are also required to contact me before agreeing to anything and I will possess final veto power so they can't get mad at you. Understood?"

"Yessir." the three answered.

"Good, now get some recharge, its been a long orn." with that fond farewell Blackshot shimmied into the vents to return to Ops.

0o0o0o0

::We need a new patsy.::

::I know that already. Wish Soundwave wouldn't have been so impulsive with ordering the old one's execution. He could have at least given us time to secure a new sap to use.::

::Well? What are we going to do?::

::I heard their transferring some new mecha in to cover the gaps and you will seduce one of them.::

::Ugh, I hate having to interface with mechs other than you. It just doesn't feel the same.::

::Orders are orders. When we finally get out of this overly sentimental pit-hole I promise to give you the interface of your functioning, but for now you have to FOCUS!::

::Yeah, yeah. Do you have any prospects that might show more promise than the others?"

::Well, there is this one mech who actually being transferred to the Comms Division from Medical and you might use that promotion as an opener to stroke a bit of ego.::

::Excellent, he will be first on my list. I was wondering if it might be prudent to have an extra on the side, just in case this one goes the way of 'Burst. Whacha think?::

::Can you maintain that many relationships at once?::

::Can I maintain… you insult me. Of course I can. I'll just keep them at friendship level until I need somewhere to release my 'grief'. Shouldn't be too hard with all these emotionally dependant soft-sparks around.::

::Your smelterpit, go ahead.::

::Thanks for your support, not. Glitch.::

::Slag for processors.::

::I love you.::

::Love you too.::

0o0o0o0

Blaster sank onto his berth and ejected his four cassettes. They crowded around him in a grateful-we're-still-functioning group hug. None of them wanted to contemplate the idea of continuing to function without their family and this orn's invasion came a little bit to close to making that a reality. They stayed like that, clinging to one another, for half a joor before Blaster reluctantly pulled away. "Alright mah bitlets, I love ya all dearly, but orn's not over yet. We still got surveillance we gotta do 'fore orn's end."

The cassettes solemnly acknowledged and quietly crept out the various secret exits to go and monitor their posts. The red and yellow Polyhexian knew it would be a long dark-cycle of cuddling to reaffirm the family's safety when his cassettes returned.

After a few kliks of silence a concealed trap-door in the floor began to open, slowly revealing the presence of another mech. Blaster rolled his optics at the theatrics. "It's safe up here ya know. No traps, no cameras, no listeners."

The door opened fully and a large, black, crimson, and gold femme stepped into the room.

"I haveta thank you for comin' when you did." the cassette-master addressed the femme. "I'm not sure how much longer we could have evaded those 'Cons."

The triplechanger nodded with concerned optics. "I hope the little ones were not too traumatized by it."

"They were a little shaken up, but there should not be any permanent damage, D.Q. So, not that I'm not grateful, but I can't believe ya came yourself. W.Q. must be really upset with you for breaking cover like that."

The black femme chuckled. "Are you kidding? I almost had to physically restrain Whitey from marching *himself down here to rescue your aft personally! The whole clade was in an uproar when we got that distress call. I had my pick of volunteers to save you."

Blaster let out a low whistle. "Really? Huh, wish I coulda seen that. It makes my spark feel full to think that our adopted clan cares about us so much."

"Always and forever." the Dark Queen assured him.

"So…" Blaster began mischeviously. "Which volunteers managed to threaten you enough ta get ta come? Ya'll had disappeared by tha time I got out of the vents so I didn't get to see who you brought with you."

"Well, you'll be proud, Chromia didn't even threaten, *he just gave everyone the evil-optic until they relented. The other, brace yourself now, was Firestar of all mecha."

"Wait, I thought *he hated all nonfemmes?!" the Polyhexian replied incredulously.

"*He has made an exception for you or at least that was the excuse *he gave us."

"Huh, will wonders never cease."

The black femme sighed, knowing that *he was about to break the comfortable atmosphere of camaraderie. The times when they could simply stop, drop the formality, and just spend time together as kin were so few and far between. Especially right now, when so many clade members were deployed on missions. "I'm sorry to disrupt the mood Blaster, but I have some things to tell you."

The cassette-master straightened attentively. "I'm all audials, go for it."

A slight grin answered his cheeky remark. "We just wanted to tell you that Phase Two has been initialized and to be ready with an excuse to leave your post an any given moment. We would also like you to tell Broadcast that, while his information was appreciated, it would have been more helpful to be notified about the assassination a little bit sooner."

"I'll tell him." Blaster snickered. "I'm sure he will have something snarky to deliver in his usual comic tone, like, 'No time, schedule severe'."

"I'm sure. Will the clade get to see you at the vornly reunion?" the Dark Queen asked while reopening the trap-door.

"If we can get away from base."

The triplechanger accepted the stipulation and disappeared through the hole in the floor.

Blaster settled back to wait quietly for his little partners to return. When the last cassette trooped in, exhausted from the tedious work on top of a harrowing orn, he gathered them to himself to rest. True to his earlier prediction they snuggled in around him, needing the physical assurance to recharge peacefully.

The long orn was at an end.

* * *

A.N.: I'm really starting to think I give ya'll to many hints, but if I try to write otherwise I feel like I am leaving you with more questions than answers. Ah well, that's life. Hope you enjoyed. This segment of the story is swiftly wrapping itself up and we will soon be moving on to more direct Jazz/Prowl interaction. Stay tuned...


	9. Chapter 9: The Femmes

I so did not mean to let this much time pass between uploads. Many apologies and a new chapter for you...

A Quick Note: There are two femmes mentioned in this chapter, Phalanx and Arclight, that are not OCs. These are actual canon characters from G1, but they have no speaking lines nor are they ever given names. I felt sorry for them so I gave them some names and background.

* * *

Chapter 9:

The next orn dawned brightly it would be a good orn. Many Cybertronians subscribed to the superstition that an orn's worth could be determined by the depth of light penetration during the Shadow Joor, the first joor of the light cycle. If the light of Binaura caused pale shadows it would be good, but if the twin stars' light allowed deep shadows it was a bad omen, best to stay home lest harm befall the unwary.

On this orn the shadows were so thin as to be nearly nonexistent and everymech was looking forward to having a peaceful functioning for a while. In truth though, superstition is naught more than myth and wishful thinking, and only orn's end can truly declare if it has been good or not.

For Blaster and his crew this orn would most certainly be an aberration from the expected.

When the fivesome roused from recharge they were met with an urgent notice that the largest of them had been promoted. This gave them pause to rejoice, at least one good thing had come of the previous orn's bad experience Blaster was now the temporary head of the Communication Division with permanent appointment pending procurement of an equal physical rank, but regardless of his honorary status he was now officially listed as an officer. Entitled to all the privileges and responsibilities of one too. Including the Ornly Officers Meeting that would start in less than half a joor.

Frantically, Blaster leapt from the berth to give his plating a quick wipe down and rush about making himself presentable for his first official meeting. The cassettes sat on the berth chortling at their master's distress until he finally fixed them with an unamused glare and shooed them out to get some energon. They complied, each giving him a congratulatory hug, and promising to drink a toast to his good fortune.

They laughed their way down the brightly lit halls to the nearest commissary , ambling in saucily and feeling like Primus himself was smiling down upon them. Or rather, up at them, since he was beneath their peds ensconced in the planet's very center. Claiming their rations from the dispenser operators and splurging a bit on some mineral additives, the four miniature mechs settled at a small table to celebrate.

Before they could begin the first toast a mech from an adjacent table tapped Rewind on the shoulder. "Oy, drone, you need to remember your place and get quiet. Drones oughta be seen and not heard unless asking their master how they can serve."

Eject glared at the mech who was insulting his brother, but one of the mech's tablemates spoke before he could retort. "Yeah, speaking of serving, I could use a new cube. Yu there, quadruped, give me that ration."

The new antagonist attempted to steal Ramhorn's energon and nearly got his digits snapped off by Steeljaw's denta. It was such a close call that some paint flecks could be see adorning the felinoid's sharp canines.

"Ahh! That one tried to bite me! Their glitching!" the thwarted thief cried. The remainder of the table sprang up to encircle the defensive cassettes. The aggressors advanced on the bristling foursome, threatening them with dismantlement and smelting. The cassettes knew that even if they could not call Blaster for aid because of his meeting and just as they were preparing to shoot their way out, a loud voice cut through the chaos.

"Hey you big jerks! Leave them alone!"

::o0o::o0o::o0o::

The location the potential informant had chosen as a meeting place was giving Bumblebee the chills. He was not a flighted mech nor did he have any record of flight-based mecha in his lineage, but being thirty stories below the even the lowermost underground levels of the base was unnerving. They had been instructed to go to an isolated sector deep within the oldest catacombs of the ancient times and they were thankful for the detailed instructions after the first few kliks of traversing the labyrinthine tunnels.

Their destination though… was stunning. The last dark tunnel gave way to a large, brightly lit, cavernous room. Its smooth walls held inlaid panels of rare, colored metals in elegant swirling designs. Interspersed at even intervals were slender columns of multihued crystal that had somehow been trained to grow in twisting, curving shapes. Thin ropes of gold-colored electrum laced over and around the twists yielding a set of columns that resembled giant pieces of filigree jewelry.

The three Ops agents just stood in the doorway, completely frozen by the delicate display of riches unlike any seen since before CrystalCity fell. Jazz looked back at Mirage to make sure he was alright. Of the three, he would be the most affected as a former Cityite and the saboteur felt bad for exposing him to this blatant reminder of what he had lost. The blue and white shook his helm, "I am fine, but… what is this place?"

"It was once the Court of Petition for the first Primes, now, it belongs to the femmes." replied a soft voice that sounded as old as the room before them. The opsmechs spun to face the voice, instantly on guard. A tiny, almost minibot sized, turquoise femme disengaged from a shadow along the corridor and showed *himself to be unarmed. After proving that *he was not a threat the little mech motioned them into the great chamber. "I am Lithograph, the femmes historian. The others sent me to greet you as they were concerned that their more war-bound frame-mods would most-likely put you ill at ease."

"So, it was one of you that contacted us?" asked Jazz.

Lithograph hesitated, "Yes." *he finally answered shortly.

When they reached the center the femme bade them stay while *he continued on to the far side of the Court. *He opened a hidden compartment and removed a tiny bell and hammer. Lithograph struck the instrument twice, then twice again before replacing it back into its hiding place. The vibrations of the tiny chiming was picked up and amplified by the columns, each of which altered the sound to a different pitch until it became a joyously loud chorus of brilliant acoustics. As the last silvery chime dissipated through the room four of the whirl patterns spiraled open to disclose themselves as entry portals. Bumblebee glanced over his shoulder confirming to himself that their own entry had been through another such portal.

Through the open doors came several regiments-worth of femmes clustered together in an organizational pattern known only to themselves. Once all the mecha had entered and assembled according to their preferences, three panels in the floor slid away to allow a set of arced daises to rise up. Upon each dais were three ornate cathedra, each seat bore a different symbol, and they increased in size from exterior-most to center-most. A fifth portal behind the chairs opened and six more femmes stepped through, at this point the entire assembly went silent. The femmes took their assigned seats and Jazz did a double-take. Two of the apparent femme command element were identifiable as part of the group that had saved his and Blaster's skidplates just yesterorn! He was beginning to think Blackshot was right, their presence had not been coincidence.

Mirage on the other servo was making notes on who sat where and compiling a probability assessment on the roles they each served in the command structure based on the symbol of their cathedra, their ranks were obvious, mostly. A rose-colored femme with wide helm spikes sat in the center, *his symbol greatly resembled a replica of the Matrix of Leadership and the blue spy easily concluded that *he was the primary leader. *His Second and Third held the chairs next, but as the cathedra were the same height telling which was which would be nigh on impossible. A powder-blue tank-former sat at the CO's right, a sigil of crossed swords and blasters marking *his seat, probably the weapons specialist. A black triplechanger sat to the CO's left, chair marked by an emblem that looked like a dagger with a traveler's cloak wrapped around it and the hood draped over the dagger's hilt, special operations most likely.

To the black femmes left was a purple and orange cannon-former, an image of a grid-mapped Cybertron adorned *his headrest and it puzzled Mirage as to its meaning so he left it for later determination. Next to the blue femme was a teal racer whose chair crest was a simple sniper's crosshairs, another easy one, the chief sharpshooter. The last femme, a green medivac grounder, sat to the teal's right and *his cathedra bore the symbol of a caduceus, obviously the head medical officer. The three empty cathedra held sigils of a felinoid imprinted shield, a stylized comm tower, and an old-fashioned key surrounded by stars respectively.

After the commanders had settled, the black triplechanger addressed the ops mechs. "Welcome, outsiders, to the Femme Stronghold. What are your designations and why have you come?"

The three knew they were being tested. There was no chance in the Pit that unknown, uninvestigated mecha would just be allowed to waltz uncontested into the midst of the femme assembly, much less have a personal escort sent to them. However, the agents did not take offense, in reverse positions they would have done much the same. Since Jazz was the appointed leader of the team the other two allowed him to speak for them. "Ah'm Jazz, medtech fo' tha Autobots n' special op'ration fo' tha same. Tha yellow minibot 's Bumblebee, acquisitions specialist n' spec ops infiltrator fo' tha Autobots. Tha blue n' white 's Mirage, former noble, Autobot special ops infiltrator n' assassin. We've come b'cause we were giv'n a mission ta eliminate a spy wit'in our own ranks. We've not been able ta complete tha job b'cause all our leads keep peterin' out. Ah was giv'n a message tha' said if'n Ah came 'ere Ah would be able ta get some help."

"Oh? And you are willing to just put aside your pride as an operative for this?"

Jazz grimaced, Mirage flickered out of the visible spectrum for a moment, and Bumblebee just stared at his peds. "Yes sir, ta protect tha mecha in tha base 'bove us Ah would be willin' ta do almos' anything'."

"Almost?" the femms were looking at them critically and the black-plated speaker gazed upon them nearly predatorily.

"Mah commander 'as warned us tha' ya would require payment from us. He wants ta kno' wha' it is a'fore he grants us permission ta accept ya aid."

The gathering appeared to have expected that answer and showed no discomfort over it. The triplechanger actually smiled and seemed to relax a bit. "Your commander is a wise mech, misguided by his predecessor's prejudice, but overall, still a smart one." Jazz cocked his helm at the combined compliment and insult, but the femme continued before he could comment. "Tell me, young Jazz, what do you know about femmes?"

The saboteur was puzzled for a moment over the odd subject change, but he figured that the big femme had to have some purpose for all of this. The only way to find out though, would be to keep playing along. "Well, tha femme frametype was firs' created durin' tha Quintesson occupation as a luxury item ta act as a guardian n' instructah fo' organic littles. It 'as of'en been speculated tha' tha new core-code was derived from selective fusing o' minibot and n' doorwinger code. Tha resultin' mecha were known ta be loyal, highly protective tat ha point o' bein' willin' ta kill, sneakeh, n' real intelligent. They were given younglin' specific codin' tha' would make 'em put the littles safety above all else and the code encompassed the immature of all species. When tha revolution occurred tha femmes altered their mandate ta onleh apply ta Cybertronian sparklin's n' younglin's n' they've been tha protectors of our littles eva' since. Durin' Nova Prime's tenure tha leadin' scientists found tha' tha femmes were dyin' out due ta havin' a less dominant spark-code than unaltered Cybertronians. Ta fix this Nova created sep'rate complexes fo' tha femme population tha' would keep 'em apart from tha main populace n' implemented a law tha' femmes could onleh bond with others o' their frametype. When Sentinel took charge o' tha Matrix he repealed those laws b'cause it was discovered tha' femme code skipped a generation if it didn' show up in the first round o' littles."

The femme commanders nodded in approval.

"Very good, but there is more to that story…" the triplechanger paused. "Perhaps it would be best to show you first."

*He motioned to the powder-blue femme, who rose and stepped over to stand directly in front of Jazz. "This is Chromia, *he is one of our best fighters and *he is going to try to strike you, please defend yourself."

Jazz was confused, the conversation was bouncing all over the place, and now they expected him to just randomly spar with one of their officers for some unfathomable reason. Still, he was not going to just let the blue tank hit him and he took a defensive stance. Chromia smirked, set *himself, and came forward with a right cross that had the saboteur seeing stars. It was at this point that Jazz's processors decided they had suffered enough and sent him into a nice, peaceful, femmeless reboot.

When he finally cycled back to consciousness his first thought was _wow that hurt_, his second thought was, _why didn't Ah dodge that?_. As his memory core reengaged he played back the last few kliks. He had taken a defensive stance. The strike came, he remembered trying to dodge and counter, but his frame seized, forcing him to take the blow. _Why did my frame do that?_ Jazz began searching through the subroutines that had been active at the moment of impact and deep, buried in the farthest recesses of his code was a priority tree as old as the Quintesson occupation.

His disbelief jarred his meta to full awareness and he finally registered where he was lying. The saboteur's helm was being cradled gently in the lap of the blue femme while their CMO carefully reviewed his reboot for errors. The black femme who had been the orator thus far, was hovering over them all with concerned optics. Jazz's audials finally reached the top of the boot queue and came online to hear the triplechanger reprimanding the tank. "'Mia, you have to be more careful! When I asked you to do this demonstration it was because I knew, or thought I knew, that you had self-control!"

"Ah didn't hit 'im that 'ard, Sol. It was justa light tap!" Chromia replied.

Sol crossed *his arms, but before the argument could escalate the green medic intervened. "Chromia is correct. It was not a hard enough clout to have sent this mech into stasis. However, it was the wire that broke the transport's struts. The Femme Protection Law conflicts with his Ops coding, couple that with the fact that he was becoming very frustrated with your nonanswers Solaris, and his systems were primed for a cleansing reboot. All it needed was a trigger."

Deciding that now was a good time to alert them to his return to the land of the functioning, Jazz spoke, "Wha' was tha' code n' how do Ah get rid o' it?!"

The three femmes looked at him, startled by his question, but silently helped him to his peds. The black one, Solaris, guided him to a comfortable looking seat placed before the daises and Jazz noticed that Bumblebee and Mirage had been given chairs as well. Glancing about, the Polyhexian observed that the new informal air had spread room-wide. The femmes now lounged on plush cushions and pillows and had returned to their groups of chatter. The commanders smiled indulgently when they noticed the saboteur's scrutiny, but gave no answer as they reseated themselves in their cathedra.

When the opsmechs were addressed again it was by the CMO, "The code that activated in you just now was a protective device installed by the Quintessons. They knew that we possessed intelligence and therefore the capacity to rebel. They were concerned that rogue Cybertronians might attempt to take their young hostage. They created us as bodyguards and then a priority tree sequence which prevents you from counterattacking or defending. Even without the code we were very effective youngling protectors which is why they began to sell our frametype. The sequence was inserted into the basic spark-coding and can not be removed."

After the doctor finished *his delivery, the purple and orange cannonformer took up the conversation. "It was because of this that we were so strictly segregated during Nova Prime's reign. He wanted us to become his assassins and when we rejected his warmongering ways he punished us with isolation."

"So tha spark-code was just a cover-up?" asked Jazz.

"Yes. By the time Nova offlined, the specifics of our functioning had been lost to myth. When Sentinel came to power he felt that we were not serving our true purpose and decreed that femmes, while no longer bound to separation, could only serve in jobs that related to the care and upbringing of sparklings." the cannonformer finished.

Jazz was very glad at that moment for his rigid training in facial control, for otherwise his jaw would have been on the floor. As it was his optic ridges were raised so high they had nearly recessed themselves into his helm, thankfully they were covered by his visor. Before he could formulate a reply however, the blue tank, Chromia, put in a comment. "That restriction was'a chafin' shackle too. Sure, 'ny of us'd give our sparks willingly to protect'a sparklin', but that doesn't mean that's all we're good fer. Alot'a us were data analysts, huntsmecha, dock coordinators, and the like. A few of us, like Phalanx," *he pointed to the purple and orange who had just spoken. "an' me, were warbuilds for Primus sake! But no! That's not in our programming 'parently. 'Cording to Chinnimus Prime we were only good enough to watch the littles all orn long. Now, don't get me wrong, taking care of bitlets for a livin' is a rewarding and joyful functioning, but it should _not _be our only option." *he finished emphatically.

"Okay," Jazz said slowly as he finished saving and sorting all the new data. "So, where do we come in?"

The floor was turned back over to Solaris who answered, "Well as you suggested in the beginning, there is a price for our assistance and hopefully your commander will find it palatable. You see, after Optimus received the Matrix, he removed the function restrictions that regulated our frametype, but by that point mecha no longer remembered us as having any other talents. They do not remember that we were once one of the most formidable and ruthless groups of Cybertronians to ever be built. Therefore, when the war began in earnest we were discarded as 'not up to snuff' for the army. So, our deal is this, we will give you aid in catching the spies and in return we Special Operations to annex us as a subdivision. Our many talents and specialties would be of great benefit to you, all we ask is that we be allowed to maintain autonomy as a group with our triumvirate reporting to and receiving missions directly from Blackshot himself, or whoever is Ops Head at the time."

The black and white Polyhexian sat back in his chair, the deal sounded pretty good to him but until Blackshot gave the ok, all Jazz could do was stall. "Alright, gimme a klik ta burst all tha' ta mah boss n' then we'll see. Oh n' while we wait, a question Ah kno he'll ask, um, triumvirate?"

At this question the Supreme Commander of the femmes finally graced the chamber with the sound of *his voice. "Yes young Jazz. Femme culture has developed a specific hierarchy that is unique to our kind and was derived from the partial military coding that the Quintessons gave us. First, femmes always group in clades, similar to the host-mech clans that used to live in Polyhex. No matter where one of our frametype resides or works they always affiliate with their local clade. Members are rarely related to one another and if a femme relocates to another district they join that area's femmes. Within each clade there is a nine mech ruling body and at the top is the triumvirate of Queens. The White Queen is the primary decision maker, equivalent to the Prime for normal mecha. I am this clade's White Queen, I am ElitaOne. The Red Queen is the second in command and weapons master, for our group that is Chromia. The Black Queen is clade third and special operations commander. Due to the delicate nature of their secondary role, Black Queens have a sub-hierarchy amongst themselves that gives them rank when entering another's territory."

ElitaOne motioned to Solaris to take over this segment. "We Black Queens are ranked according to our stealth capabilities and assassination skills. The classifications are Haze, Mist, Dusk, Dark, and Shadow, respectively, with Shadow being the highest. Thanks to Megatron's massacres only two of us remain. I am the Dark Queen and the third of the Praxian Clade is the Shadow Queen."

*His portion finished, the black triplechanger settled deeper into the comfy depths of *his cathedra while ElitaOne continued. "Under the triumvirate serve six advisors. The Baduk, fourth in command and primary tactician, that is Phalanx's position. The Punctum, the linguist and data analyst. The teal femme next to Chromia is Moonracer and *he fills this role as well as being our resident sniper. The Lance is the chief medic, ours, who you have already met, is Arclight. The Atari, the infiltrator and information gatherer; the Anchor, the communications specialist and contact for the Atari; and the Consular, who represents the clade in the public domain. Our Atari and his Anchor are not here at the moment and we have not had a Consular since Nova Prime."

Jazz absorbed all this and transmitted it to Blackshot before making a response. "Ya kno, Ah'm wonderin' why ya need us, cuz it sounds loke ya been doin' jus' fine on ya own. So what's changed?"

At a nod from Elita, Phalanx answered, "What has changed is the direction of this war. Our ability to gather or acquire sensitive information has always been superior, however our capability to disseminate the data to the Autobots has always been tenuous at best. Our few contacts within the faction disclose what we find as best they can, but the check system for unsecured data integrity makes it slow to reach the relevant audials. By the time most of our information is accepted and assimilated it is orns, if not decacycles, out of date. Mecha are dying out there because our intel is not counted as coming from a trusted source.

"We also feel that if we were to have access to the vast network of Autobot intelligence we would be at least eight-nine point four three seven two percent more effective. Our proposal would be of benefit to both our groups and hopefully might stem the advantage that the Decepticons seem to keep over us."

Blackshot pinged Jazz's commline and the saboteur opened it with his usual jaunty flair. -:-Hello, you have reached tha line o' 'Stuck in the Middle', he is unavailable at tha moment so ya call is bein' transferred ta his partner 'Information Overload' n' his sidekick 'Why Me', please hold.-:-

-:-Very funny Jazz, now pay attention if you ever want Mr. Stuck to get out of there.-:-

-:-I'm all audials boss, whacha got fo' meh?-:-

-:-The information they have given you checks out with the archives, so they're on the level. Tell them we accept their request. I will have the dataforms ready at the conclusion of the mission, however, I would like some flexibility on the terms of command structure. If they would allow that part of the arrangement to be fluid until I can get some time to get the details set, and possibly tweaked a bit from their initial proposal, then you can seal the negotiations.-:-

-:-Will do boss-bot. See ya topside.-:-

-:-Of course ya hooligan.-:-

Jazz relayed his commander's decision and the femmes were very willing to accommodate the black mech's request. With the lengthy explanations and negotiations, what little there was of that, over, the femmes were ready to celebrate. They invited the three opsmechs to join them, more than one optic had passed its gaze over their plating and the opportunity to socialize with such handsome specimens would be taken advantage of. Two sets of optics and a visor met in silent deliberation, then looked out at the swarm of tantalizingly beautiful, super-rare, and oh-so-delicate mecha fairly begging them for their time, then looked back at one another.

Their decision took less than a nanoklik to make.

::o0o::o0o::o0o::

Very early in the next light cycle, the nearly empty halls bore witness to a very odd sight. Three mechs, still half drunk, stumbling down the corridor, arms wrapped about their companions' shoulders, singing an old song about a mech coming home to his bondmate after a long absence. The trio swayed back and forth until they reached their quarters. Getting in took them a moment, being barely cognizant enough to remember the code. Slumping into and onto various furniture the comrades came to two conclusions: One, femmes were slagging good dancers, and Two, the highgrade they had procured from… somewhere, was the best they had tasted in vorns, regardless that it was the only highgrade they had consumed in vorns.

Ten kliks later they were all in recharge.

One joor later they all onlined to a very loud, to them, set of pings at their door. The noble reluctantly gathered his strength and activated his phase disruptor. The minibot covered his helm and begged the offender to leave him alone. The Polyhexian dragged his overcharged skidplates over to the door and triggered the release button.

Behind it stood a frantic Blaster, "Mech! Where have you been?! I have been pingin' ya for ten kliks! We're gonna be late ta our meetin' if ya don't get a move on!"

The black and white just stood there uncomprehendingly. His visor flickered on and off erratically as he tried to parse whatever message his friend was trying to get through the haze to him. Jazz's condition finally registered in Blaster's processor when the scent of too much highgrade wafted past, and the cassettemaster shrieked.

He grabbed the errant drunk and frog-marched him down the hall. All the while explaining that they had been promoted, they were now Chief and Sub-chief of Communications, they were going to be late to their very first meeting with High Command, Jazz was never allowed to drink again, and that he better like cold showers because there was not going to be enough time to let the solvent heat before the Polyhexian was washed. They turned the corner with Blaster still fussing about how he hoped Jazz liked processor aches because there was not time to stop in Medbay for a fix.

The door closed and the two remaining occupants sighed in relief. There was a short bout of debate over who would get _their _hangover cures and then a decidedly grumpy, yellow minibot went forth.

::o0o::o0o::o0o::

After getting his cure administered and taking another back for Mirage, Bumblebee felt much refreshed. His regained cheer needed to be shared so he ambled down to the nearest rec room to see if any of his friends were about.

When Bumblebee stepped in he noticed that the atmosphere felt… off. The room was full but no one was talking. Everyone's optics were focused on a crowd near the back. The group appeared to be very agitated about something and the small opsmech crept closer to find out what. Half-way through the room and he could hear the mechs threatening someone with deactivation and a momentary parting of the crowd revealed four terrified, cornered cassettes.

The minibot froze in horror. He had been cultivating a friendship with the tiny mecha and the thought of them being bullied or threatened set off some very protective coding in the yellow mech. Determined to stop this injustice before it escalated further, Bumblebee amped up the output on his vocalizer and shouted, "Hey you big jerks! Leave them alone!"


	10. Chapter 10: Highgrade and Revenge

Hi folks, got a short one here today.

First, I would like to say that the long, involved detailing of the femme culture actually came from my attempts at discerning why a genderless society would isolate an entire frametype when no other frametype was treated thus. I could think of no logical reason but the one I gave in the last chapter. Even were I to place it in the context of a bigendered society it did not answer the issue, in fact it made the whole Autobot cause seem very sexist.

Second, I had a great time in this chapter with the speech of Perceptor. His enormous vocab was a delightful way for me to show the expansive reaches of my own vocabulary in a way that other people could enjoy. I actually used to speak just like our beloved microscope and have been the recipient of many blank "whut u say?" looks.

Lastly, As pointed out by RagdolDark this story no longer fulfils the original summary. When I first began writing this ficlet I intended for it to be a short, maybe 5 chapters, story about Jazz hating Prowl but eventually coming to love him. However, around chapter 3-4 the plotbunny took a wide turn into left field and has stayed there ever since. I also got so submerged in writing the chapters that I completely forgot I even had a summary. There **will** eventually be Prowl/Jazz, but the bunny keeps giving me world development and character development material instead. So, to reflect the current storyline the summary has been changed. Many thanks to RagdolDark for pointing this out and thanks to all my other stellar reviewers for their feedback.

* * *

Chapter 10:

"Leave them alone!"

Nine colossal heads turned to identify the interloper who would dare interfere with their fun. To their endless amusement it was a little yellow minibot. The ringleader's mirth made him feel magnanimous so he did not flatten the brazen mech, yet. "Oh? And why should we? Are you planning to defend them _mini_bot?"

Bumblebee drew himself up to his full height, which sadly was only barely to the shortest lugnut's waist, and replied, "If I have to."

The group of ruffians got so tickled by the thought of this tiny mech trying to do _anything_ against them that they neglected to notice the mecha approaching to back up the brave mini.

"Indeed, it would be most unwise of you to further attempt to propagate this prejudice against diminutive individuals and should you continue your machinations I am afraid that chastisement will be your guerdon." The entire gathering, minibot and cassettes included, stared at the new speaker, dumbfounded by the incomprehensible speech. They knew that his words were probably Cybertronian, but the meaning was lost upon them. The bullies guessed that it was most likely a series of geek-ified insults and chose to take offense. They began to encroach upon the smallish red mech's personal space with much intended malice.

They froze however, when they noticed his companion. A grey and white mech with red and green accents adorned with a round blast mask and… glowing headfins. A spike of fear drove its way through their sparks completely nullifying all thoughts of defenseless drones, annoying minibots, or presumptuous nerds with overly large vocabularies. Instead, they could only focus on the Unamused™ visage of a seriously irritated Altihexian. An Altihexian that was known base-wide as Wheeljack, Master of Accidental Explosions and Chief Munitions Officer. Not someone to tangle with unless one wanted to lose a limb… or three.

Suddenly, picking on the little drones did not sound as fun as it had earlier. They made mumbled excuses about not really meaning anything by their actions and scurried off. The cassettes vented a collective sigh of relief and turned to thank the bigger mechs.

"Thanks for sticking up for us. Those glitch-helms can't seem to get it through their processors that we aren't drones and they are constantly picking at us." said Steeljaw.

"That is preposterous," exclaimed the red mech, a microscope barrel on his shoulder flexing its focusing lens in an expression of his outrage, "Your sentience is categorical as evidenced by your self preservation reaction to the persecution rather than the drone response of automatic compliance."

Again, a round of blank stares greeted the science mech's statement. Wheeljack however, was doubled over giggling at the communication breakdown. The red microscope realized he was not getting through and turned on the laughing engineer. "Wheeljack, translate."

The Altihexian managed to calm his laughter down from the gasps it had devolved into and did as asked. "'E means ya willin'ness to fight fo' ya'selves shows ya all got sparks."

"Ooooh!" came the foursome chorus of understanding.

"Well why didn't he just say that?" Rewind asked.

"He did," answered Wheeljack. "Perceptor just doesn't know how to speak without using multisyllabic words."

Four more understanding nods. The cassettes then turned and thanked Bumblebee too. He looked down embarrassed and told them not to worry about it. Then something occurred to him and he looked at the bigger mechs. "Aren't you two officers? Shouldn't you be in the ornly meeting right now?"

Wheeljack looked chagrinned, "Yeah, but we were sent out to get energon for the meeting 'cuz the dispensers in the officers' lounge 'r all broken."

Perceptor, who had been sulking over the previous teasing, took this as an opportunity to get in a jab of his own. "They are 'broken', Wheeljack, because you concluded it would be a stupendous ponderation to postulate that the dispensors' outputs could be aggrandized and used the actual devices in your verification instead of facsimiles."

No one laughed, mostly because they could not understand what the scientist had said. The engineer could see Perceptor's hurt and so he translated, thus outing himself. "He said that I tried to make the dispensers make moar ena'gon an' they blew up."

"Oh." Again, understanding. The envisioned spectacle made them want to snigger, but these were officers, so they held their mirth in. After a few more moments of chatting, the five small mechs offered to help carry the loads of energon. The two officers gladly accepted and off the group went.

o0o::o0o::o0o

When Blaster saw his minimechs troop in carrying the staff's energon his spark swelled with pride. They looked so adorable when they handed each officer a cube with a cheerful grin and greeting. He also got the nagging feeling that they were hiding something from him because there were moments where they seemed a bit too cheerful. Hmm… There would be words had later, for now he needed to focus on the meeting.

o0o::o0o::o0o

After dropping off the fuel, Bumblebee escorted the cassettes back to their quarters just to make sure there would be no more bullying attempts. When they arrived at the door they thanked him again and the minibot took the opportunity to make a suggestion that had been percolating in his meta since the bullies ran off. "Hey, I'm not sure if it would be something you're interested in, but I have a plan of revenge that might teach those fraggers to check for sentience before acting foolish."

The predatory grins would have made even the most hardened Decepticon quake.

o0o::o0o::o0o

The Meeting from the Pit was finally… over. Perhaps if Jazz were slightly less overcharged he would not have minded so much, but then he would recall the sermon-monologue that served as Prowl's status report. Yeah, it was a bad meeting all around. Someone really needed to vet that mech's speeches before he accidentally bored the masses to deactivation. Keeping to the facts was one thing, droning on until mecha were contemplating ripping out their audial assemblies was just cruel and sparkless. Thus Sayeth Jazz the Overcharged.

However, now that the mandatory ornly torture session was over, the Polyhexian was headed straight to Medbay for an overcharge fix. Then he was going to go to a stint in Comms with his favorite music mix blasting in the background for therapy.

It was during this 'therapy' that Jazz found his mind drifting back once more to the black and white winger. He remembered that the first time he saw the Praxian up close it had crossed through his processor that black and white really set off a doorwinged frame in a rather sexy way. His voice was nice to listen to as well, it had this midrange bass resonance that could give rise to all sorts of nice thoughts, until one actually listened to what Prowl was saying. The sheer dryness of the spoken content could shatter even the most hard-core voice addict's fantasies, and all without even the slightest effort on the tactician's part.

It was rather sad, Jazz thought, Prowl was doorwinger yumminess with the voice of a god, but his complete lack of visible personality, or even emotion, ruined all that entirely. The mech really needed to get out of his office for some social development. This thought reminded him that he had never finished implementing his plan to loosen up the stick-afted SIC. Well… He would just have to remedy that. He had plenty of time now, what with Comms being far less labor intensive than Medical and the femmes aiding his investigation. Jazz now had enough processor space to designate a few threads to the stiff Praxian.

He would contemplate his options for the rest of his shift.

o0o::o0o::o0o

::Have you acquainted yourself with the target yet?::

::He was sucked into an Officer's meeting first thing and then he was in Comms for the remainder of the orn. I am staking out his usual commissary now and I will attract his notice when he comes for his dark-cycle energon.::

::Very well, we need to hurry though, Lord Megatron does not do well with unnecessary delays.::

::Someone should have told Soundwave that, it's his fault after all.::

::Yes, well, nothing that can be done about that now… Good luck my love.::

::Thanks, I love you too.::

o0o::o0o::o0o

Highgrade burned off quickly. Despite its ultra refined nature it was low density and artificially supercharged. It took roughly six highgrades to equal the mass of a single midgrade, which meant a mech's systems were actually processing less energon despite the increased cube consumption. Also the extra charge made it impossible for the excess energy to be stored in the reserves. This was the cause of the 'overcharged' state that most drunks suffered from and also for the hyperactive, happy feeling that made drinking so enjoyable. However, when the charge wore off, the affected mech's body did not get the memo right away and would begin to burn through the reserves at an accelerated rate to maintain the previous level of energy. The final result would be an exhausted, extremely hungry mech who felt like a steamroller had just passed over him.

To all of this Jazz could attest its truth.

He hurt.

He was tired.

And if he did not get a cube soon he might vamp someone.

It was for this reason that Jazz forewent trudging to usual rec room over by Medical and slogged his way to nearer one next to Tactical. The short jaunt was uneventful and the line at the dispensers was short. The Polyhexian took his ration to-go and retreated to his room.

There was another data crystal on his berth.

During the celebration yesterorn he had found himself in the company of Solaris for the majority of its duration. Trough their conversation Jazz had discovered that the triplechanger had a very dry, devious sense of humor and a penchant for theatrics. In *his own words, "If you can distract your enemy with a flare of overdramatics then he will place his focus on you and not notice when your partner fleeces him clean."

And this entire enterprise of leaving datacrystals embedded with cryptic messages lying in obviously out of place locations, definitely fell into that category. Peeved that Solaris was able to bypass his room's security so easily, the saboteur ignored the crystal. Instead, he checked in with his teammates. "Yo 'Bee, Ah heard ya nearleh got run ova' by some goons in tha rec room earleh this light-cycle."

The minibot rolled his optics and generously shared an exasperated grimace. "Yeah, a bunch of the frontliners and gunners were picking on the cassettes. No one else was stepping up for them so, I did."

"Ya weren't worried 'bout blowin' ya cover?"

"At that moment, no. All I could see were their scared faces and all I could think about was protecting them at all costs. They were so terrified, the big mechs were telling them that they would be pulled apart and smelted slowly until their spark chambers ruptured. How could I not step in? The cassettes are barely second stage younglings and they were being told that they would be tortured to death for the crime of refusing to allow the bigger mecha to steal their energon!"

Jazz's face became very dark. "Were tha soldiers serious 'bout their threats?"

Bumblebee recognized the look on his leader's faceplates and silently approved of the fate that would soon overtake the errant mecha. "Yes sir, they were. If questioned, they will undoubtedly insist that they thought the cassettes were drones, but they kept referencing to the little mechs' sparks. Those heavies knew what they were doing."

"Then they will be dealt wit'."

Bumblebee took satisfaction in that resolute statement, but then he remembered what he had discussed with the cassettes earlier. "Um, maybe give us a few orns before you do that. The bitty mechs and I have _plans_ for them first."

Jazz grinned, his lighter side coming to the fore. "Oh? N' ya gonna share these unholy designs wit' ya eva' fait'ful leader?"

Bumblebee just grinned back.

The saboteur shook his helm and changed the subject. "So, where's 'Raj? Ah haven't been able ta see 'im yet this orn for an update, usually he's here by now."

The yellow minibot's optics suddenly became sparkly with mischief. "Our dear noble had finally stepped off of his pedestal and made peace with 'the Green One.' They have spent the last orn getting to know one another via comm an their conversations have become downright _friendly_, if you take my meaning."

"Oh really?" replied the Polyhexian, his own countenance showing his utter enjoyment of this development. "Well, we'll jus' haveta give'em a nudge now n' then ta keep 'em goin' in tha right direction. Ah think they both deserve som happiness n' if they c'n find tha' wit' each otha' then its all good."

"I agree. So, are you ever going to look at that data crystal? I have been waiting for over a joor for you to get back and open that thing."

Jazz looked down and considered whether he had pouted long enough. Deciding he had and that propriety was satisfied, he loaded the crystal into a spare pad. Thankfully, the message was very simple and not the series of riddles that the last had been. It read, -:-As promised, all the information we possess is being turned over to you for your investigation. However, we felt that this would still not be enough, so we cleared it through Blackshot to have one of our mecha added to your team. This addition possesses unique skills that will be useful to your mission, and since he is our Anchor, he is also a direct line to our information network. He will arrive at your quarters on the mark of the fourth joor of the dark-cycle. –Solaris, the Dark Queen.-:-

Jazz looked up and Bumblebee was staring at him expectantly. The saboteur started giggling, the minibot looked like he was sitting on cogs and ball-bearings with the way he was struggling not to fidget.

"Well?" the little Iaconian demanded impatiently.

When Jazz managed to stifle his snickers, he relayed the message, "They're assignin' a femme directly to tha team. *He'll be here in'a few kliks."

"What!" Bumblebee exclaimed, "But the room's a mess!"

The yellow mech immediately jumped up and began to scurry around cleaning up the mess the three of them had left during their overcharged entry that morning. He stopped after a moment and glared at his leader, "Come on! We have to get this place cleaned up. First impressions are everything and we can't have our new member thinking we're slobs, they'll lose respect for us!"

Jazz started chuckling again, but dutifully helped clean. Mirage showed up a short time later and was railroaded into picking up too by the Taskmaster Mini. It was a good thing too, for as the last item was put away the doorchime range. The Central Cityite and the Iaconian arranged themselves around the room trying to affect an air of nonchalance and professionalism while the Polyhexian rolled his unseen optics.

"Are we settled?" Jazz asked. Twin nods answered him so he opened the door.

-tbc-


	11. Chapter 11: Prank not Lest Ye Be Pranked

Sorry about the long update time, writer's block bit hard.

Anyway, here's the new chapter. Enjoy, review, and point out errors.

* * *

Chapter 11:

Jazz opened the door to see Blaster standing on the other side. "Um, hey mah mech, whacha need?"

He had to get rid of his friend, and fast. The femme representative would be there soon and he did not want to have to explain that to his best friend. Behind him he sensed Mirage flicking on his disruptor.

"Hey Jazz, can I come in?" Blaster asked, and why did he look so nervous about it?

Puzzled, but realizing that something terrible had to have happened for the cassette-master to be acting this way, the saboteur motioned the other in. Hopefully the femme would be late.

The red and yellow commsmech entered and sat gingerly on the berth. Jazz sat with him and placed a comforting servo on his shoulder. "Blasta', wha's wrong mah mech, ya don' seem right."

The other Polyhexian vented deeply, "Sorreh mah friend, I'm just a little nervous. Um, well, there's no easy way to say this, but, I'm not who ya think I am."

Jazz removed his servo and regarded Blaster warily, while across the room Bumblebee prepared himself for a potential attack. Desk jockey the host-mech might have been, but he was still a trained soldier with four, just as highly trained, cassettes that he could deploy with a single thought.

"What do ya mean?"

Blaster stared into his visor for a moment as he gathered his courage, but found he could not look the black and white in the optics while he confessed. "I'm tha Femme Contingent's Anchor."

The three opsmecha just stared in a state of stupefaction. Mirage's shock caused him to ripple back into the visible spectrum but the cassette-master did not appear consternated by it.

Jazz's processor was racing. On the one servo, he could understand why Blaster had kept this from him. After all, he himself had not told his best friend he was really an ops agent. However, on the other servo, he was just a bit irrationally hurt that the hostmech was afraid to tell him until he had been practically ordered to do so. Of course, then the doubts began to set in. Did Blaster befriend him just because of his mission? Was the music-loving, jokester, snarky, all-around fun mech the real Blaster? Jazz really wanted to express these fears, but the saboteur knew he had responsibilities at the moment that did not include angsting over a potentially false friendship. Instead, he had to appear cool, unphased, professional… he really hated his right now. Jazz plastered a grin on his faceplates and managed to appear, at least, mostly unaffected. "Well, tha'll make things easieh. We already have a great rapport 'tween us, so it'll be less diff'cult ta int'grate ya inta tha team."

Blaster was noth fooled, the black and white was practically oozing anxiety. Anyone who did not know Jazz would be unable to tell, but the cassette-master was empathetically tuned to his best friend. "Jazz, stop worryin'. We are still friends, an' nothin', not even mah mission, will change that."

"Ah'm not worried."

"Yes ya are. I can see it."

Jazz held his façade for a long moment, then waffled. "Ah'm jus' wonderin' if ya really became mah friend cuz ya wanted ta or jus' cuz ya had ta, n' if it was tha real ya, n' whether we'll still be friends when this is ova' or will Ah have ta fin' a new best friend."

The communications officer felt his spark ache as he listened to his counterpart pour out his fears. After he was sure the saboteur was finished, he spoke. "It is true that I acquainted mahself with ya because it was part of mah mission, however, it was never supposed ta go beyond acquaintanceship. Tha intent was for us ta have a connection of commonality ta make you feel more comfortable when, an' if, we got ta this point in mah assignment. Tha personal connection that we made was never supposed ta happen, but I'm glad it did. You are my best friend, someone I would be, an' am, proud ta call my brother. An' yes, it has been tha real me this whole time. I am tha Anchor, an' like tha Atari I have formal trainin' in character alteration. However, tha White Queen felt it would be better in the long run if I were ta be mah normal self rather than a false personality since tha Autobots were intended ta be our allies."

Blaster paused in his explanation to cock an optic ridge at Jazz with a distinct _pot-calling-kettle-black_ grin. "An' you know, I could conversely be asking you tha same. Is this 'Jazz' tha real you?"

"Yes, this is tha real meh, Ah onleh use a diff'rent persona when Ah'm infiltratin' tha 'Cons." Jazz answered sheepishly. "'N while Ah understan' here," he said pointing to his processor, "Here jus' don' wanna coop'rate." he finished, indicating his spark.

"Unfortunately, only time can help with that." the hostmech sighed. "Will ya be ok ta discuss tha information I brought?"

This time the saboteur's smile was genuine. "Ah don' kno', Ah might need some mini-mech comfort first."

The four resulting clangs to the front of Blaster's chestplate set him to snickering. "I think we can handle that."

The cassettes burst from their master's docking bay with delighted urgency. Steeljaw and Ramhorn cuddled up into the visored Polyhexian's lap with much exaggerated purring and authentic happiness. The half-sized minis had come to recognize Jazz as someone they could trust and they had been just as worried as their host that they might lose one of their too few genuine friends.

The little twins, though just as ecstatic as the others, were too hyped up to do more than give Jazz a quick, loving hug before hopping off the berth to pull some games from their subspaces. They scurried under the bunk to play behind their creator's and Jazz's pedes, but every so often one of them would reach out to pet the nearest leg-strut to reassure the bogger mechs that they did care.

"Now then, shall we look at that data?"

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

He hated drones. The malicious little sparkless ones were untrustworthy. Of course, he knew that they were not really drones but he just could not count them as full mecha either. Their nebulous position in-between made him uneasy and he was automatically hostile towards anything that made him feel unsure. That was why he and his gunnery crew had joined with the frontliners to pick at the tiny menaces yesterorn. It was a defense mechanism to attack what he did not understand and as the leader of his compadres he set the standard.

Of course, being reprimanded by that weakling science mech had not helped his powerbase and the officers' interference had given the small almost-drones courage.

Courage that he, Backbite, team chieftain of the lead gun battery, got to _joyfully_ discover when he roused from recharge this light-cycle.

Rattle, rattle, klink, tink. Rattle, rattle, klink, tink.

The loud sounds of the tiny ball-bearings inserted into his joints followed him all through his shift, and as if that was not humiliating enough, the audacious blighters had also attached a mechanism to the interior of his posterior that made a backfiring noise every time he sat down. It was mortifying! Especially since it chose to manifest itself during the quarter-vornly armaments inspection by the ENTIRE SLAGGING HIGH COMMAND!

The raised optics ridges Backbite received were quelling enough, but the glacial look of _that was not proper protocol for addressing respect to a senior officer_ that Commander Prowl cast his way, made his insides freeze in horror. Optimus Prime however, being a gracious, forgiving Prime, waved off the incident in favor of continuing the inspection. That was the worst incident, but for the remainder of that shift he was subjected to hidden tittering whenever his back was turned and looks of held-in laughter when he twisted to look, as every shift or movement of his seated pelvic struts gave rise to another set of spontaneous eruptions.

He was heading straight to Medbay to have the infernal things removed. When he was finished, Backbite was going to find those cassettes and dismember them… slowly.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

::Have you spoken to the target yet?::

::No. He went to a different refectory last dark-cycle.::

:: … ::

::I… I have a plan though!::

::Oh really. Is it better than your last one? Because Soundwave is going to initialize the termination order if we continue to show ourselves as incompetent.::

::I can't control the choices of another mech!... I'm trying, really. The security breach at the Comms Deck has made Command jittery and they sent down orders tohave bodyguards assigned to the walkposts inside the Deck. Since us frontliners tend to get _anxious_ when we have nothing to do, we were offered first choice to the postings. Command probably figure it would keep us out of trouble.::

::Well? Did you volunteer?::

::Yeah. Why would I mention this if I had not?::

::Because… *sigh*, it doesn't matter. Just don't mess this up, because if you do…::

::I know, I know, our creation… It won't happen so it's not worth thinking about.::

::I love you.::

::frame and spark, my love.::

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

To the casual observer the Communications Deck would appear to be the most boring detail in the history of military assignments. The room was set in the base of the circular SignalTower and reflected its shape except for the corridor side which was flat. There were no windows. Because the tower was mobile the entry to the Deck could be accessed from any number of levels as the tower was raised or lower depending on the weather or attack. The interior was lined with massive decryption computers along the curved wall. These computers would take in the comm signals from the powerful receivers and use complicated algorithms to render them understandable. However, the computers had a secondary application. The signal antennae were strong enough to capture Decepticon signals in their raw format, but without the encryption codes they sounded like static and whines. Over half of the computers' processing software was dedicated to breaking those codes, and because of the extreme difficulty of the task they were augmented with the intelligence and skill of the communications officers. The commsmecha would spend the majority of their shifts plugged in to the great machines to lend their creativity, and ability to see illogic, to the stolid, sparkless computers.

The exterior of the tower was enhanced with auxiliary shielding to protect these valuable resources. However, as proved a few orns earlier, the interior was far less protected. So, the ground troops received new orders, 'Protect the Communications Division.' Now, normal guards would have been stationed outside the location they were posted to, but in this case, thanks to the periscope action of the tower, that would mean the guardsmecha would spend most of their time dashing from floor to floor to stay in front of the entrance. Since this was highly inefficient, and Prowl's position on inefficiency could fill several libraries of datapads, the guards were stationed inside the Comms Deck.

Unfortunately, this protective presence did not reassure either Jazz or Blaster. The femme intel indicated that one of the frontliners was the go-between for the information leak, and logically, since the old sender had been eliminated, the spy would be looking for a new outlet for the garnered information. The simplest way for the mole to do that would be to volunteer for the guardpost. So the two of them were stuck… in a sealed room… with a potential sleeper agent…, Scrap.

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

The two Polyhexians sat silently at a table near the back of the cafeteria where privacy was at least marginally higher. They stared intently at their rations, appearing to worn out to even talk. The ops-grade, triple-encrypted, shortwave, low frequency, private commline they shared however, was buzzing like a boltbee hive.

-:-What're tha chances, ya think, tha' one o' tha new guards're our mech?-:-

-:-I'd say extremely high if tha furtive glances that blue frontliner was giving ya were anything ta go by. He was sizing you up for a gullibility rating.-:-

-:-Ya think so?-:-

-:-I know ya saw him so don't play dumb with meh.-:-

-:- *snicker* Yer right. Ah did notice n' Ah'm thinkin' Ah might return a few o' 'em next time, see ifn' he'll act on a lil' encouracement.-:-

-:-Sounds good. If this mech is our plant then it could lead us ta his partner eventually, if ya are 'romantically' involved enough ta be brought inta their inner circle.-:-

-:- Ya'll's intelligence still indicatin' tha' our spymechs're bonded?-:-

-:-Yes, our inside agent has confirmed it, an' really, it is tha only logical conclusion for how they're transferrin' it without meetin' up or using our commlines.-:-

-:-Well, then Ah'll be sure ta flash mah optics real pretty n' see where it takes us.-:-

With their business concluded, Blaster deigned to lean back and regard his friend with a contemplative optic. "So, something happened yesterorn ta tha cassettes, but they refuse ta say anythin' about it except that it's bein' handled. You wouldn't know anythin' about that, now would ya?"

Jazz had the grace to studiously observe that the ceiling was a solid piece of synthcrete instead of separate panels like the paintjob suggested. When a few awkward kliks had passed the saboteur caved to the inevitable, that the cassette-master was not going to give this topic up. "Ah do kno' wha's happened, but Ah've been sworn ta secrecy. Bee's involved, but he won' tell meh on account o' plaus'ble deniability. He n' ya littles have cooked up somethin' good, 'cuz they've had slag-eatin' grins on all orn."

Blaster crossed his arms.

"They promised ta share vidfiles when it's done?" Jazz offered tentatively.

The hostmech looked slightly mollified but still did not uncross his arms.

Jazz sighed, "Look even if ya get wha' happened out o' them, their jus' gonna tell ya not ta mess wit' it. Ah tol' 'Bee Ah was gonna deal wit' it n' he begged meh not ta do anythin' until they got their kicks in. So, jus' wait fo' them ta do wha' they feel they gotta n' then ya c'n help meh wit' the real punishment."

The red and yellow mech's irritated visage melted into something more friendly. "I 'spose. As long as mah littled are not in any danger."

"Mah mech, Bee'll look out fo' 'em, so relax." the saboteur replied as he drained his cube. "Now, le's get some shut-optic, it's gonna be a long orn tomorrow."

_-*-_..._-*-_..._-*-_

Backbite fidgeted on his chair, mortified, and more than a little fearful, as Commander Prowl ranted at him in that icy, almost inflectionless tone, upon the regulations regarding proper decorum. Sadly, the Commander was on such a roll that the gunner could not get in a statement of defense. If the SIC would only give him a moment, then Backbite would explain how this was neither intended nor done by his own servo.

The poor mech had come out of recharge that orn to a most horrifying sight. His entire frame had been painted pink with bold lavender contrasts and light yellow highlights. The drones had repainted him with such attention to detail that to the outside observer it looked like he had gotten a true repaint. To compound that, on his way to the Medical Wing's paint lab he received a basewide alert that a potentially deadly contaminant had been found in the paint supplies and all the color stock was in quarantine until the infected canisters could be isolated. So, Backbite had been stuck with a color scheme that even the gaudiest of mecha would have rejected.

It had also brought on some really awkward attention. Several times mechs had approached Backbite, tried to proposition him, and then become angry when he repulsed them. Most had stormed away with comments that he should not offer if he had no intentions of following through. It had left him confused, and even more angry at the pranking half-bits.

Backbite had only been on shift for a joor when he was called to the SIC's office to address his paintjob, which puzzled him since a change of colors was did not seem like something that would be against regulations. It became even stranger the longer the Commander lectured. The mech kept making odd statements, like, "I am aware that credits and energon are in short supply, but putting yourself out like this is neither the proper response nor an appropriate gesture for this army."

Commander Prowl's scolding was winding down now, so perhaps the gunner could get some answers on what was going on.

"So, what do you have to say for yourself?" the icy blue optics pierced him as if to delve into his processor with his very gaze and pluck the answer straight from his meta.

"Commander, sir, I don't understand? How is my paint color against regulations?" came the tentative objection.

If anything, Prowl seemed to sit even straighter and his doorwings flared minutely. "Your color is not the problem, soldier, it is the prostibot advertisement on your back!"

"Th-the what?!" Backbite replied in a horrified whisper.

"Do you pretend then, to not know what is written on your own armor?"

"Sir, no… I… I did not do this. I am being pranked by those drones. This… I would never become a prostibot!"

The Praxian's optic ridges furrowed. "The cleaning drones are not capable of independent thought. Your excuse is poorly constructed in the face of logical fact and an insult to my intelligence. Would you care to attempt the truth now?"

"No sir, not the maintenance drones, the mecha-like ones that Polyhexian host carries around!"

Prowl paused for a moment in confusion. "Those are not drones, they are cassettes."

"Cassettes, drones, it makes no difference since neither of them got sparks." Backbite replied mulishly.

Prowl's optics flared in surprise and his battlecomputer immediately began making some disturbing suggestions about this entire situation. As a tactician however, he was not wont to play all his reserves at once, so he feigned ignorance. "So, your claim to defense if that the cassettes, who are sparkless drones, repainted you?"

"Yessir."

"Why?"

"I-I don't know sir, but I'm not the only one they've bee targeting. For some reason they have fixated on my unit and the others have suffered from the antics of the drones as well."

"And you have no clues as to why your unit has been singled out?"

"None sir, except for maybe… Well, we sit near their chosen table at the commissary, so, familiarity and accessibility?"

The SIC's gaze relaxed slightly. "I see. Very well then, you are free to go, and I would _suggest_ that your first stop be the Medbay for a stripping."

"What about the contaminants?"

"What contaminants?" Prowl's wings flicked in confusion.

"The basewide bulletin this orning stated that the color supply had been quarantined for planted contaminants…" Backbite was bewildered that the Commander would not already know about such a potentially dangerous situation. Then, the truth dawned on him. "There was no bulletin this orning, was there."

Prowl's optics showed signs of sympathy. "No soldier, there was not. Mark it off as the culmination of the prank, and rest assured that I will be investigation the unprovoked vindictiveness of the cassettes in regards to your unit."

Backbite smiled in revenge-happy delight. "Thank you sir."

"Dismissed."

The gunner turned on his stabilizer and marched from the office to finally rid himself of the humiliating prank. After he left, Prowl leaned back, servos steepled under his chin, to consider the problem before him.

-tbc-

* * *

Nikkie2010: so was it who you thought?

RagdolDark: I know! Perce was so much fun and my Thesaurus got a serious workout for it too.

Thanks to all who have reviewed and will review. When I need incentive to keep writing it is your notes that give me encouragement.

Thanks again,

- Ghost


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